He sang along as she broke into some cleverly co-ordinated air guitar moves to complement the rocking rifts. He laughed. She laughed. They laughed in unison; slumping down even lower in the back of Pop’s FJ Holden staring at the beam of light that flickered and flashed across the ocean. Jim Morrison’s People are Strange was blaring from the radio. It was 1968. This was their favourite spot – the Byron Bay Lighthouse – most Eastern point of Australia.
The moonlight reflected off the water through the car window casting a shadow from her face. It caught his attention. Her side profile looked even more beautiful in silhouette he thought. She tilted her head as she drew back another puff from the perfectly rolled joint he had made especially for her. Smoke blew from her mouth. He watched it drift past the beam of moonlight that had cast its shadow upon her. How beautiful she looked. She was his Little Pocahontas Princess. Her long straight black hair parted in the centre with a brown leather beaded headband wrapped horizontally across her forehead and tied at the side with bright orange feathers dangling at the ends.
Hippies they called them. He was studying political science and philosophy. She was a whimsical free spirit immersed in Art College. They spent their University holidays living in a commune in the hills at the back of Bangalow. Permaculture was his thing and clay sculpting was hers. Like tightly wound spiral wire coils his curly hair bounced up off his shoulders. She would spend many hours with her hands drenched in jojoba oil using her petite delicate fingers to untangle the knots from his wild mane. She never complained; neither did he. Together they perched on the rocks like a pair of sea gulls. She put her arm around him. He got up and started slowly scaling down the rocks and walked onto the sand. She followed him. Their ears were tuned in to the harmony of the waves gently rolling in and out with the low tide. The silence saddened her. He misses his mum she thought.
Crouching down in a frog like pose, he picked up a piece of driftwood. With the end of the wood he squiggled in the sand. He drew a big infinity symbol. With his index finger he sketched his initials in one loop of the infinity sign and hers in the other. Still no words were spoken.
He put his hand in the pocket of his loose fitting brown linen trousers. Something was in his hand. He held it tightly in his fist and placed his hand in the middle of the sand sketched symbol. She sat next to him and affectionately placed her hand on top of his. He flicked opened his fist, flipping her hand off, placing a single stoned gold ring in the middle of the symbol. Glancing upwards directly into her glazed eyes that glistened under the moonlight,
‘Will you marry me… infinity?’
By Stephanie Lois
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