It is a warm winter’s night (yeah… Queensland, where climate change goes to get high). I am fixated on something. I am lying on my stomach, gawking out the window with steely magpie eyes. Tonight, the clotheslines are filled with clothes and bedsheets and towels and bikinis and even a surfboard, laid across the lines. And there are bras. The plan began to perculate in my mind with an exhilerating rush. It was a feeling before it was a thought, something akin to… forged wholeness, perhaps.
I am outside, it is late.
I have a towel with me, to pretend I’ve fetched it from a line. Caravan parks aren’t places which get very dark; there are lights everywhere through the night. But there are shadows between the rows of holiday bungalows, dark pockets where misdeeds are done, and I am in one now. My heart is pounding, it feels irregular. I am aware of both everything and nothing, hyper-alert with adrenalin and blind with fear. There is no time be choosy – I grab the first bra I come across in the dark. It is wet still, large. I am not sure if I’m breathing as I scrunch it into a soggy ball and wrap it in my towel. Then I power-walk out of the shadows and back into our cabin, the journey a heavy blur. I check at the sliding doorway if there is anyone in the living area; it is empty, everyone has gone to bed. I rush into the bathroom, lock the door, freeze… breathe… breathe….
The bra is actually a crop top – it has green and blue horizontal stripes, with massive cups. It is old; the fabric is tatty, has lost structure. As lucky dips go, it is a fucking wet dud. I put it on anyway – it feels almost slimey, and its disgusting against my skin. It is miles too big for me, hangs off me with an emaciated sigh, dropping down and dripping soapy water on my toes. I become nothing but disappointment and shame. There is no wholeness here, I feel – lessened, diminished.