Tall Tales

There are no blank pages in my notebook.

I sit down at a table for four in the back corner of the pub. It is a table that is both most out of the way, and has the most light to write by.

I remember being excited yesterday because I had finished writing about my final thought just as I had filled the last page of my journal. And despite the risk of it threatening that night's sleep, and making me feel jittery and cold in my skin the way too much caffeine does, I ordered a second coffee to celebrate the perfectly timed.

I sat content not to re-read, nor listen to music or a recently downloaded fiction podcast, nor write anything - there was nothing further I needed to say.

And out of habit, attachment, and for immediate access and reference, I continued to carry the book with me that afternoon, night, and even here today I find myself pulling it out of my bag knowing there is no more room in it to write.

And here I am wanting to record a few things I hadn't thought to be related, but have a niggling suspicion might prove to be, if I set them loose to roam about on the page unrestricted.

The first is about two girls at a cafe I had felt fondly towards for ordering two large pizzas, a serve of hot chips, and two chocolate milkshakes to aid in the assuaging of the hangovers I convinced myself they were hoping to cure. The variety and yet specificity of their order reminded me of the particular peculiarity of my own cravings when I am hungover: the sweet, the savory, the salty.

The second is my repeated encounters with Ian ("Ian the Terrible" is the way he introduced himself to me), an older man I see daily at my tram stop on my way home from work. He calls me "darling," and "sweetie" and I tease him that he calls all the girls that, and in fact he doesn't remember who I am.

He tells me he drinks too much soft-drink and not enough milk, and I tell him I drink too much beer and not enough water. He says he won't be there the next day because he is going to Coolangatta with friends, and I joke with him that he will fall so in love with the airport there, that he will see no more of the town than that.

He never boards any of the trams when they arrive, and instead waves to me after I have boarded and carefully chosen a seat by the window to allow him this ritual.

Ian is at the tram stop waiting for me the very next day after he told me he wouldn't be, and I make no mention and instead tell him that I woke up that morning as a giant of eight metres, but took a tablet to return to my normal size to ensure he would still call me "little lady." The more absurd my tales, the wider his grin.

So if I had a few pages to write about these experiences, perhaps I would make the connection that we are our own makers, and create what we make, and what we make we fashion to grow old with; to make believe because we believe all we make.

The two girls may well have been nothing more than hungry, or celebrating their own victories of timing. And Ian the Terrible? He may not be waiting for me and our daily conversations at all, and may think I am the one telling tall tales, leaving his reality on my imaginary journey home.