You wish you wrote it

You could tell what he felt was more than just lust. You could tell it was more than some shit kicker crush. Heart Of Gold, by Neil Young. He wished he wrote that song. He wished he wrote it for her.

In the end, as it happens, they didn't stay that long. Circumstance had them moving on down the line sooner than anyone would have wanted. One night in the bar she came up in conversation, two days before they were due to leave.

The words stung him like they'd been fired from an air gun, a Telemarksman II with two springs. Whatever that meant. It hurt but he couldn't let on, not the done thing round these people. Emotions? Bah, for fucking pansies mate, for the real world. Yeah, not the done thing out here, among the trees and the kangaroos. He bit his tongue, didn't say the angry words that brewed within his anger. He ran his fingers through his hair and tried to act nonchalant.

The words floated round his head, the scotch dimmed his perception, for a little while at least.

He felt guilty, maybe he should have battled harder for her honour. But she's a tourist and he's a shitkicker. There's not much point nowadays anyway, everyone's corrupt.

Walking past her place he saw the dimmer blue glow of her television set, wondered what it would be like to see that smile every morning. But he'd said it himself in an earlier time, 'there's to many people in the world to get that hung up on just one of them'. But he couldn't help but think, the worlds to scary, she's to special, he's to spineless.

She left on the monday with her friend, just as had been planned. He said goodbye, quickly and quietly. Goodbyes out there were always hard, harder even still when she flashed him that smile. The truck pulled out, gears crunching and he thought to himself, "I've been here before, I dare say I'll be here again."