Burned rubber fills my nostrils, and the dark night fills my eyes.
Stars. There are stars up there.
Same as in Melbourne, but crisper, more dominant in the night sky.
I'm walking, and I don't know if it's safe, even though it's not that late.
I like being out of the streetlights on a rare evening stroll - away from eyes and intentions.
Just the sound of crickets rubbing their crickety legs together in their eternal plea for sex.
They're brown and small, and at first I thought they were cockroaches.
Recognising their legs and heads, I relaxed, and even felt affection for the blighters scuttling about the lit verandah.
They were pillaging the Salvos donations.
Scumbags.
I spotted two black PVC boots - my size.
Hrmm.
"I'm glad you aren't grabbing the whipper-snipper, Miss."
It was the guy in the white cap with the backpack.
I had sensed he was dodgy when he'd walked past before, but he'd disappeared and I thought my radar was off.
But I lived in Wodonga a long time.
And here he was again, scraping the edge of some pre-smoked cigarette on a bin lip.
"You're 'right," he said, seeing he'd startled me.
"Was just looking at the whipper-snipper."
Short of his words, he reminded me of an old Yorkship pauper, meaning yeh no harrm, Miss, just eyein' my ol' eye on that whipper-snipper there...
I hadn't even spotted the garden implement - just lots of drool-encrusted kids stuff and 1990s CD racks. A selection too sad to keep, and too sad to steal.
I bid him a good evening, because we were, after all, both thieves in the night.
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