Profile

His name is Ian, he loves the thrill of the chase

26 May 2006, around 3.11pm… Rubbing his palms on his denim knees resting against the wood-panelled dash, Ian waits for the old gold Holden to come to a full stop outside the time-warped country pub before lazily pulling the handle on the passenger-side door.

He waits and watches from the wide footpath for the driver to gather her bag, lock the driver-side door and straighten her skirt. He slows his 6’3” stride to fall in behind her on the approach to the pub door and softly places his hands on her round hips.

He has been waiting for the opportunity to touch her since she arrived at his motel two hours earlier. For one long moment, as they carried his things from his generic work car to motel room, he had considered kissing her in that small space between the TV set and the badly quilted bed. But he knows he has to take it slow with this one.

Through the pub door they head toward the main U-shaped bar situated in the centre of the patron-vacant room. Ian settles on a stool close to her right. A young, slightly-feral barman brings them each a pot of beer and waits to see if they will permit him to stay.

The barman’s innocent and eager conversation provides them a giddy-tension reprieve through tag-teamed banter and make-believe history. Ian pretends to be her brother. She talks about love-bites and late-night dancing.

The beer relaxes them. They smile more. Ian’s eyes flash as she reaches to touch his arm. Two beers later they are back in the car and on their way to the next small town, and the next time-warped country pub. They detour via an old cemetery where her great great great grandmother is buried.

This next pub is smaller and patron-full of the town’s old farming community. Again, he settles on a stool close to her right. He encourages her to tell him stories, first about her family, and then about her. She warms as she talks, moving her hands more. Ian leans on the bar with quiet satisfaction.

A quick detour to the Giant Wine Cask, where he cocks a leg and performs for her camera, they arrive back in town. She drops him off at the brewery and then heads the car back towards her home.

“Do you think you will ever let me meet your live relatives?” he asks her as she settles half an hour later at his chosen table by the window. She smiles, and makes no attempt at answering his question. They both know that he has no intention of meeting her friends and family.

This is the closet they’ve sat all day. The energy and conversation grows. Ian cocks his fair head and looks directly into the younger girl’s eyes. Her eyes are vaguely familiar to those he first saw six months ago. He is relieved, she is prettier than he remembered.

From the brewery they head to the Irish pub. He hungrily orders a Guinness and pretends to whisper in her ear so she can feel his breath on her neck. They find a large booth and sits flush to her left. He is tactile, and 40-something confident. Together they enjoy smirking at a local girl for her short, white ra-ra skirt.

Restless, he urges for them to move on to dinner. Back at the brewery he orders the burger, she the salad. Again flush to her left and moves an arm around behind her and tucks her into his broad shoulder. He is keen to move things along. But she laughs and jeers.

“I don’t get it - you jeer when I compliment you, and nuzzle my neck when I do something stupid,” he says with good-natured exasperation. “Why don’t you come back to my hotel room where you can laugh, jeer and nuzzle my neck all night long?”

Restless Ian talks her into another bar, to a long and low couch by an open fire. It is ideal. He touches her leg, holds her hand, and twists her long hair around the tips of his fingers. He kisses her on top of her head at the 11th street crossroad on the way to a well-lit RSL.

Now oblivious to all else in the RSL’s bright Sports Bar he holds the back of her neck and kisses her plum on the lips. Beers only half-drunk. “I knew you would come around,” he says through a lazy smile.

Back