I'm like a magnet to them. Now I take notes.
His story was plausible but I didn't believe it. He took no photos of his journey like he didn't want to leave a trail. He couldn't remember where he'd been. He had no stories of living in Sydney. He'd been shipped over here for work and never really left the space ship. And now he was on the road. The answers to his questions were all vague and open ended. He didn't know where he was going. He didn't know where his journey would end. He wasn't running away and he wasn't running towards anything. He had no passion. So when he kissed me I thought of two slugs in a bain marie. I hoped the pimple on his lip wasn't a virus. That's all I needed. It was the country that made me want to kiss him. I was all worked up with a small town yearning, surrounded by men with the blood pumping through them. I had to kiss someone. And there he was. The Spy. In the middle of nowhere. What was I doing? Disaster Chef probably sent him. Or Centrelink! Or ASIO. Or the Dutch mafia! That'd be just my luck. He told us he was from The Netherlands. But nobody knew where that was.
'Say Holland.' I told him.
So he did.
And everyone got it.
But Gidget said . 'I don't know about those clogs. They've got no give.
She wears slippers to work. Hot Pink.
The Platinum Cowgirl invites the Spy home with us. She does it for me. I'm 100% ambivalent. Now I know he's a spy I don't want him to come but it's too late to get out of it. She's so generous. She feeds us Maggie Beer Pate and expensive wines and cheese and crackers and cigarettes. I take notes. He tells more stories that leave no residue. He has no aura. He worked setting up people's voice mails but he couldn't remember his own phone number. Only Artists and Spys can't remember their own phone number...
But if he was a Spy the poor bastard was stuck between a paranoid Videographer and a Tracker. I had a bullet at his back and The Tracker had an imprint of his sneakers...He had no hope.
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