Smoke Damage (smokedamage) wrote,
Smoke Damage

Love and King Street

King street at seven in the evening is like a mall. People line the streets, and are everywhere, bodies in motion. Mostly, they keep to the footpaths, but when the traffic halts, they reclaim the street, and frustrated drivers can only glare and bang their heads to the doof-doof coming from their stereos.

Clean cut, country kids down from the colleges, her in jeans and polo sports shirt and him in his brand labelled tee and long shorts, walk eyes widened, past the sneering new-punk/new-goth - black is evidently out - with their disaffected faces, and angry eyes. Around the fierce ferals, and the shuffling junkies, and they beg pardon from the two old guys who look like their country fathers, except their fathers don't walk hand in hand.

The Japanese surfer boys, on a night out saunter past, their fingers touching lightly as they pass. The hard drinking, rec-drug friendly, new corporates, dash home before heading out for another night in the bars. The emo kids, with their thick rimmed specs, undernourished frames, and hearts on their sleeves, slouch past. A leashed puppy sniffs my boot and the owner smiles at me and they walk on.

An old flame passes, hand in hand with a boy, surprisingly. She is as beautiful as she ever was, her skin glowing faintly golden as it used to nearly ten years before, and her clear blue eyes look through me. My heart flinches, and they are gone.

There a million different smells coming from the many different restaurants, blending together in a way that makes you wonder how some of those foods would go together.

Out on the street there are bowed heads, raised smile, laughter, and abject misery. There are flowers and romance, and instant communities of music outside the church, as a jam session flares up in the streets, drumming, hand claps, stamping and voices joined together, dreadlocks flail in the breeze and piercings reflect the alien-abduction-brightness of the convenience stores lights, that illuminate the sterile interior, where the lone subcontinental daydreams of the cricket.

I pass through this way every day, and i keep my eyes open, and observe. This is not my side of town and i've never been all that fond of it for many reasons, but it is a facsinating area.

There are late night book stores, and the cafe set look up briefly as i pass, and go back to solving nothing over their cappucinos.

There is everything you could ever need on this street and it's maybe the reason why some people never leave the area - fuel, rego, smash repairs, theatre, cinema and a brothel, and a new restaurant for every night of a season. Designer clothes and op-shops jostle each other in the streets and the shopfronts, and people tumble into and out of the bars under the watchful eyes of the islander security staff.

Tags: love, sydney, tales, writing
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