Best Australian Yarn: Fences by Lisa Wiseman

Perched on a stool at the end of the bar, I was waiting for my boyfriend; we hadn’t been dating long. The night felt close and clingy, the sultry hangover of a hot summer’s day still pink on my skin. My loose-knit top, high necked and reliable, hung out over my baggy jeans; I’d rolled them up just a little so my ankles could get some air. Sure, a mini skirt might have been cooler, but mine was long forgotten in the bottom of my wardrobe. These days I always opted for something comfortable. I didn’t want to dance, despite the way my foot tapped on the stool. I’d left that part of me behind somewhere, in the past.

Strings of festoon lights zig-zagged around the grassed area a few metres in from the barrier fencing. Drinks were flowing and the dancing had already started by the time I arrived. Tables dotted the lawn on either side of the bar. The main band, the Sonic Jets, had just started to play alternative rock from the back of a truck at the opposite end of the park. There were hundreds of people there, bright faces vibrating with heat. Laughing. Dancing.

My eyes were drawn to a guy in the crowd. His curly, blond hair visible above most other heads as he bopped his way around the festival. Blue jeans covering what had to be muscled legs judging by the shape of them. As he moved closer my heartbeat raced, even though I wanted to look away I couldn’t. Sweat glistened on his forehead. Unbuttoned to the waist, his striped shirt was held firmly in place by a large-buckled belt. With sleeves turned up against the warm night, he jostled his way to the other end of the bar. Flashing a cheeky grin at the barmaid, his perfect white teeth reflected his confidence as they caught the light. He drank a few beers, then grabbed another and sauntered off to check out the talent. I followed as he made his way through the crowd. He noticed a girl dancing just at the edge of a group of people and ambled over to her. Laughing. Dancing.