Certain days: it is easy to imagine this small, once-prosperous river town (barely distinct from many other small, once prosperous river towns) as if you are only passing through it, shunpiking the thruways in favour of the scenic rural two-lanes on a road trip in your better, your best life. The life in which your formidable boxer-turned-human-rights-lawyer wife has simply pointed to this town on a much misfolded map and declared: Here, lunch. Possibly because of the town’s suggestive name, possibly because she is exactly twenty-eight miles from ravenous. You promise that after this town, from this town on, you will take over your share of the driving. Neither of you slept well last night, in a three-star last-minute in the town of Lake Whoever, but you’ve racked up several hours of passenger-side napping while your wife listened to the final chapters of Springsteen reading Springsteen, somehow keeping the rental car out of the loosestrife.

Neither of you will have hoped for much from this town – sandwich, tank of fuel, leg stretch in view of water – so it is quick to outstrip expectation, quick to disarm you with sleek geometric shop-window typography and skeins of wild geese overhead (the geese, too, only passing through), with the ratios of porch swings to porches and tire swings to maples. The egalitarian yacht club with its yard of bright vessels (none of them yachts) wintered tight under blue-and-white ship wrap. The wood across the river a gentle riot of autumn leaves, the tree line a long, fire-feathered serpent outstretched along the bank, light breeze riffling its plumage.

There is the occasional household stars-and-stripes, draped above doorways, between Neoclassical columns, but you don’t spy a single political sticker. In the spirit of cautious bipartisanship, one of you pronounces the town adorable, and the other agrees, True.

Your wife parks beside the river. She has been your wife – you have been wives – for thirteen days, since a registry ceremony on the Ontario side of Niagara Falls, planned and paid for ten months in advance, because who could be fucked waiting for Australia to get its shit together? Since there and here you’ve compiled a mental list of fs that pluralise to vlife to lives, wolf to wolves, knife to knives – they all sound vital and gleaming. The river has been company since Tahawus, where it travelled under a different name. But it is freshly beautiful here, at this hour, in the cold gold ameliorating light that follows rough weather.

As for the diner, it is patently ex-Brooklyn, and the menu is ex-Brooklyn, but the prices are ex-ex-Brooklyn. You order a vegetarian omelette, like a recuperating Alice Munro character. Your wife orders a turkey club that she will tear the crusts from like a child. And a quad Americano for the road (really for you).

Okay? you ask, and she answers by taking a dessert spoon from the cutlery cradle and pressing its cold contours against one heavy eyelid, then the other. She lays the spoon on the Formica table and gets up without a word to look for the toilets.


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  • Custom Article Title 'Anything Remarkable', a new story by Josephine Rowe
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    Certain days: it is easy to imagine this small, once-prosperous river town (barely distinct from many other small, once prosperous river towns) as if you are only passing through it, shunpiking the thruways in favour of the scenic rural two-lanes on a road trip in your better, your best life. The life in which your formidable boxer-turned-human-rights-lawyer wife has simply pointed to this town on a much misfolded map and declared: Here, lunch.

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I am a girl who knows how to hold a gun. On weekends, Dad drives me out to the pistol club, while Mum pulls white-sapped weeds from the garden. She plants natives that can handle the salt in the air; angular, bristling plants with angular, bristling names: banksia, grevillea, bottlebrush. A line of Geraldton Wax along the verge to replace some mean and blighted rose bushes. She knows we won’t stay long enough to see them tall. We never stay. She plants them anyway.

There is always a pistol club, and so I pack my gun box and Dad and I drive out, away from the wind-churned coast and deep into the canola. In a converted dairy shed we stand next to each other and shoot at paper targets alongside sharp-eyed farmers and retired cops. They are men with enormous hands and wide, sun-ruddy faces, and they are always watching me. There’s never been a girl in the shed. Wives, sometimes; sons, often. But the men never bring their daughters. A girl is alchemy. I change something, curdle it.

‘First time for everything,’ they say.

And there is.

‘Show us what you can do, sweetheart,’ they say.

And I do.

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  • Custom Article Title 'Metal language', a new story by Beejay Silcox
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