Month Cyclone Quotes

Steve drove the next morning as we made the turn for the Burdekin River. The single-lane dirt road, as small as it was, ended there--but we had another two or three hours of four-wheel driving to go. We navigated through deep ravines carved by the area’s repeated cyclone-fed floods, occasionally balancing on three wheels. “Hang out the window, will you?” Steve shouted as we maneuvered around the edge of a forty-foot drop. “I need to you to help counterbalance the truck.” You’ve got to be kidding me, I thought. But there I was, hanging off the side of the bull bar while Steve threaded his way over the eroding track. As we pounded and slammed our way deep into the bush, Steve talked about the area’s Aborigines. He pointed out a butte where European colonists massacred a host of the Aboriginal population in Victorian times. The landscape was alive to him, not only with human history, but with the complex interrelatedness of plants, animals, and the environment. He pointed out giant 150-year-old eucalypts, habitats for insectivorous bats, parrots, and brush-tailed possums. After hours of bone-jarring terrain, we reached the Burdekin, a beautiful river making its way through the tea trees. It was a breathtaking place. We set up camp--by which I mean Steve did--at a fork in the river, where huge black boulders stood exposed in the middle of the water. I tried to help, but I felt completely out of my depth. He unpacked the boat and the motor, got it tied and moored on the river, rolled out the swags, and lined up containers of fuel, water, and food. Then he started stringing tarps. What a gift Steve had for setting up camp. He had done it countless times before, month in and month out, all by himself, with only Sui for company. I watched him secure ropes, tie knots, and stretch canvas like he was expecting that we’d have to withstand a cyclone. It was hot, more than a hundred degrees Fahrenheit, but Steve didn’t seem to notice. Sui found a little shallow place at the edge of the river and immediately plopped herself in. I saw Steve look over at her as if calculating her chances of being snatched by a croc. Crocodiles are the ultimate camouflage attack predators, striking from the water’s edge. There would never be “down time” for Steve. No time to sit down and unwind. We were off in an instant. We grabbed Sui, jumped in the boat, and headed upstream. White Burdekin ducks startled up in front of our boat, their dark neck-rings revealed as they flew over us. Cormorants dried their feathers on the mid-river boulders, wings fully open. It was magical and unspoiled, as if we were the first people ever to travel there.

There is a long moment. I don’t even understand why he’s standing up for me in front of his father. In another handful of months, the truth will come out. I’m not his girlfriend. I’m not someone he cares about. I am only after his money. But for a second, the lie seems real. Blake’s eyes blaze. His hand holds mine. I can actually believe that he cares about me, that he’s willing to stand up to his father for me. It’s like Romeo and Juliet. The version of Romeo and Juliet where the Montagues have nothing and the Capulets can crush them all without thinking, that is. The version where Juliet dies alone in the tomb from a drug overdose and Romeo says, “Oh, shit, I knew I was forgetting something, but I was trying to figure out how to get out of paying ordinary income tax.

He doesn’t put his arm around me. He doesn’t touch me. He just looks at me like he wants to. “Out of curiosity,” he says, “that money I transferred to your account. Have you spent any of it?” I haven’t wanted to touch any of it. I want to let it build up, a huge sum to ward off any possible danger. Still, I slowly nod my head. “On anything extravagant? Anything silly?” I swallow. “I bought mangoes.” He smiles a touch sarcastically, and I reach out and give him a little shove. That’s a mistake. It puts my hand in contact with his shoulder. His bare skin is cool to the touch, and I don’t pull away. “Hey,” I say. “Mangoes are expensive.” He doesn’t laugh at me, even though I know that to someone like him—to someone who spends fifteen thousand dollars a month, something I can’t even contemplate, mangoes are nothing. Even though I haven’t moved my hand from the point where it rests on his shoulder, and my thumb itches to caress him. “I’ll make you a deal,” he says. “I’ll pay your parents’ utility bill this month.” I have some idea how little money he must have. I know exactly how much that would cost him. “But—” “Hey,” he says. “No arguments. We’re trading lives. I’m taking that on. If you’re terrified, I should be, too. But you have to do something for me in return.” I still haven’t moved away, and I know I should. Sitting here this close to him, touching him—I’m giving him ideas. I’m giving myself ideas. Fuck, I don’t know what to do with these ideas. I have a sudden urge to slide my hand down his chest, feeling the ridge of every muscle, the whisper of short, light hairs against my fingers. I could undo his jeans. Find out precisely how much of that bulge there is fabric, and how much is him. “What?” My throat is hoarse. “I don’t care,” he says. “Something you wouldn’t normally do. Something risky. Something silly. Go skydiving. Buy a name-brand purse. Do something that terrifies you, something you can’t get out of your mind, that you’ve been holding back on.” I look at my hand on his shoulder. I’ve never wanted to go skydiving. I’ve never lusted after purses. I’m just getting used to the luxury of the occasional mango. There’s really only one thing I want right now that terrifies me. “I’m thinking of something.” My throat feels dry. “Something blindingly stupid. Risky. Idiotic.” “Do you want to do it?” My mouth goes dry. “Yes.” “Then go for it,” he says. For a second, I’m frozen in indecision. It will change everything. It will start a snowball rolling down a mountain, and I’m not sure I’ll escape the avalanche. Still, I turn to him. I look into his eyes. My hands tremble. “Okay,” I say, and my voice trembles, too. “Here goes.” And before I can think better of it, I do the stupidest thing possible: I kiss him.

I've written about self-esteem and about confidence and about embracing the person you are (versus the person you think you should be), and how liberating it is to say "I AM ON MY OWN TRAJECTORY, BUT THANKS FOR THE FEEDBACK JK I DO NOT CARE." I know that trying to be another person is doing a disservice not just to yourself, but to the human you're attempting to emulate. And I know that doing this sets us all up to lose because we usually only attempt to emulate a very specific part of a stranger's life, which we've interpreted subjectively. Sitting here, writing this, I tell myself I get it. And sitting there, reading this, you probably think you do too. But then fast-forward to tomorrow, next week, or sometime next month, and I will inevitably find myself caught in a "Why do I always bring up serial killers during small talk?" mental cyclone. And then I will play and replay everything I said and the looks I got and the tone someone used when they said they'd email me, and I'll fixate on all of the worst parts until I find out five months later that nobody but me even remembers having had that conversation at all.