Melbourne Train Girl has always been scattered and somewhat disorganised. She lamented this as she searched through her handbag, purse, bedroom, studio, car and finally the pockets of all her coats, collecting up receipts. She sat on the floor amongst at least eight piles of papers and attempted to catch up on three months' record keeping before beginning her tax.
Really, Melbourne Train Girl has no idea what she is doing.
She sat, and sifted, and shifted papers from one pile to another until, frustrated almost to the point of tears, she stood abruptly and chose to leave her house.
She walked in the direction of the early setting sun, with no real destination in mind. When she arrived at the supermarket she went inside, intending to look for some inspiration as to what to cook for dinner. She began in search of ingredients for a stir fry, and left instead with those for wontons.
Melbourne Train Girl never uses plastic bags. Instead she fills her much too large handbag and then carries that which won't fit in her other hand.
She frowned at finding another crumpled, half faded receipt in the pocket of her jeans while looking for change. At least the ink of the date on this one had not yet completely disappeared. Unlike others...
Melbourne Train Girl had never made wontons before. They turned out better than expected, although she perhaps used a little too much ginger and not quite enough salt.
Lately Melbourne Train Girl has been practicing eating with chopsticks. She has never been very good, and is determined to master even the slipperiest of morsels. When she and the Short Boy had eaten at a bright and lively Vietnamese restaurant where there was a thermos of scalding green tea on each table, Melbourne Train Girl had not been able to pick up the slices of giant mushroom from one of the dishes they had shared. The Short Boy had laughed and showed off his own skills, although not without a piece of snow pea leaf missing his mouth and landing with a plop on the sky blue laminate table next to his plate. But apart from that spill he was very proficient. He had lived in Japan for a year, after all.
Melbourne Train Girl wrestled with a particularly stubborn wonton, re-adjusting the position of the cream plastic chopsticks in her hand. Her red wine fingernails were almost naked once again, except for small chipped portions of polish in the centre of six of them. She'd painted them on the train before her first real date with the Short Boy. She has to paint her right hand when the train is stopped at stations, as her left hand is too shaky.
She wonders whether there will still be fragments of polish left when the Short Boy returns. In her superstitious way she decrees she will not scratch it off with her fingernail. If the dark burgundy completely chips away, she decides that it means the Short Boy has forgotten her...