I didn’t have much money. Robert had some but I had made it clear that I wasn’t interested in borrowing. We palled around sydney, through days of sunshine and rain, sightseeing, beach sitting, and I endlessly reading. I ate sushi and he watched me, I lolligagged while we walked around circular quay and he sighed impatiently. he frowned at my cigarettes, and at my general demeanor. At night, I would leave him in the hostel to walk down to bondi, and sit on the sand by myself. It had been a while since I had really been by myself. my days busy and filled with snot and diapers and meals and bathtime and books and packing lunches and swim lessons. the sound of the ocean makes me zone out, and its nice to forget where you are once and a while. it was in sydney, on that beach, where I made the final decision to go home. where I set it in stone in my mind, in my blood. where I felt the familiar crawling of my skin, the itch to pack my suitcase and buy a different ticket. it was that night that I decided that I must prove to myself that I can be stable, that I can sit still, that I can be happy without feeling the desire to uproot myself. I decided to give college and chance, to put down temporary roots in a town that I never felt a connection with until I left it behind. nothing can hold me, except for myself.
the next night we walked to a pretty little restaurant on the street. I ordered a entire bottle of wine and the waiter asked me if I wanted a glass or a straw. he thought he was joking, but I drank the entire bottle. the idea was bad, the action was dangerous and I knew better, I always know better. I swayed myself back to the hostel, the front sitting area filled with tables, people sitting and laughing and talking. the smell of weed so thick you could get high just standing there. I nodded to my hungarian friend and the strange little man that asked me if I had ever driven route 66, with the sad combover and the dingy grey and blue striped shirt. the small european woman who was alone always, with her journal and cigarettes, watching me. I tripped up the stairs, into my room and onto my bed. I lay awake. I vomited on the floor. everywhere. it projected, splashed, spread across the floor. I moved to the door to go to the bathroom. “don’t touch that.” I tell him “im going to come back with a bucket.” I disappear into a bathroom for ten minutes. I come back and the floor is clean. the tights that were in the splash zone had been rinsed and hung neatly in front of the open window and fan. fresh air coming in. robert laid quietly in his bed. i didnt feel embarrassed or sorry. i didnt feel anything. i fell asleep and didnt dream.
the next night we left. that morning i spent outside a cafe with “on the road” and four pots of tea.
This reads just like Kerouac. Perhaps you should write a novel.
