06/30/2020 (Tue) 07:48:57
I thought about getting mine out and going to have a kick with them.
Getting a sore back because I'm old and then they laughed at my thongs and socks.
Then giving them my ball because it's better than theirs and I never use.
Ending with a speech about how 'at least they'll use it'. It's better than them sitting inside on their video games.
A glint in my eye, indicating that I did the latter and it's their duty to carry out my unfulfilled dreams.
The red headed one goes on to be in the AFL and kicks like Modra, then opens up a second grade refrigerator mechanic service, with his face on the side of every mobile refrigerator mechanics car.
The other starts grafititing train stations, then starts using crack, becoming a shell of himself.
30 years later, red head's refrigerator company is lost in a divorce and he trains 4th graders in sapsassa footy, the junkie lives in subsidised housing with meal prep done daily by his government appointed methodone dealer, these two lock eyes at Dry Creek station.
No one else is on the platform.
Red head is having a Winfield blue, the junkie is watching him.
They recognise each other but can't build the courage or can't be fucked saying hello.
Their 9:45 to Gawker arrives.
They get on separate carriages and never see each other again.