Long Hugsville

He of the coffee-coloured waist-length dreadlocks, over-fed pecs and hemp trousers, Adonis, and she of the saintly expression, bare midriff and colossal bosom, Persephone, are hugging in the centre of the main path leading into the garden café. Greenpeace pin-ups! Not your average shabby tree dweller. Hugee and hugor sway backwards and forwards and from side to side, enjoying the mutual sensation of each others embrace while customers sip soup and break bread inches from their hips. I can’t take my eyes off them. The passing trade finds themselves having to navigate off the path in order to make their way to the bar. I begin to get an uneasy sensation. Are they for real? It’s hard to say around here. After a long minute, or so it seems, I want to interject. Take your devotion to satsang, or get off the bloody path will you! Their complete disregard to the people movement chaos they’re causing gives me the shits. I’m feeling embarrassed, and getting prickly. One minute ten, twenty … Two minutes down and they’re still grafted to each other. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have a problem with public displays of affection. Mum did. I don’t. Persephone’s peach and lilac skirt blossoms over the path, while the scent of the patchouli oil she’s poured over herself sends the resident water dragons scampering up the central poinciana tree. Adonis is impressively big, as big as the muscular presence of cheetah on the savannah. Clearly he thinks this his urban savannah. A waiter sidles up with a loaded tray, ‘Excuse me’ he murmurs – louder, I want to yell - but the huggers are deaf as well as mute and stupid. I distract myself by sharpening my poison arrows. Wait! There’s someone else in on this. Sitting at the table closest to them, thigh high suede boots, eyes like big green saucers and wearing a belt masquerading as skirt is the other woman. Aphrodite. Is she waiting her turn at a hug with Adonis. She seems very patient. I’ve now moved through and out of embarrassment and sit firmly in mindless rage. Three and three quarter minutes. I position arrow number 1. Ah, movement! They prize themselves apart and I breath a sigh of relief. It’s a false alarm though because they separate, fractionally, faces three inches apart, and gaze into each others eyes. Endlessly they check each other’s iridology, analyse the crusty sleep in each other’s eyes, look for nits nestling in their erotic eyebrows. Buggered if I know what the wilfully unaware do! Puss in boots, sorry, Aphrodite, lingers on the side. She’s not even fidgeting. A few nervous coughs ensue, chairs get shuffled, people snigger – thank god I’m not the only murderer - raised eyebrows, more coughs. I want to throw a bucket of cold water over them! Finally, after a marathon 4 minutes, they give each other a last adoring look. Adonis turns to she of the noble tolerance and nods. Persephone sits back down at the table, picks up her bulging walnut burger, and poises her perfect teeth. Let’s see you eat that with dignity I mutter under my breath. Aphrodite wraps her arm around Adonis’ waist and they disappear out into the street. Only in Mullumbimby!

 

Posted with Blogsy