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May. 20th, 2007 10:01 pmcollecting smiles
Sunday morning. working in the dark, while the cars pass brilliantly, like rapid angels flourescing down the road. I clean the toilets, wiping the mirror and looking at my own eyes, my tired mouth. the milkybar girls stumble in with pallid hair and burnt eyes. big men in dirty caps and greased-up hands smile back at me and lean on the counter too closely. later, on the way to church, a tongan man in a shouting purple suit grins at me while sun breaks over the coffee machine, pouring into the store with startling ridiculous light. I pump petrol for a samoan family, men in sober black wraparounds, women in dresses that cling to warm wide hips. two little boys run into me with $10. a little asian man ducks and bows to me as he passes over money. when he looks up he surprises me with the curve of his lips. the woman who I know is a prostitute asks me how my week has been. in the afternoon I fill a gas bottle for a man who tells me he was born in palestine and grew up in jordan. it is not like christchurch there, he says. there are more hills.
I'm in the market for a new title for this.
Sunday morning. working in the dark, while the cars pass brilliantly, like rapid angels flourescing down the road. I clean the toilets, wiping the mirror and looking at my own eyes, my tired mouth. the milkybar girls stumble in with pallid hair and burnt eyes. big men in dirty caps and greased-up hands smile back at me and lean on the counter too closely. later, on the way to church, a tongan man in a shouting purple suit grins at me while sun breaks over the coffee machine, pouring into the store with startling ridiculous light. I pump petrol for a samoan family, men in sober black wraparounds, women in dresses that cling to warm wide hips. two little boys run into me with $10. a little asian man ducks and bows to me as he passes over money. when he looks up he surprises me with the curve of his lips. the woman who I know is a prostitute asks me how my week has been. in the afternoon I fill a gas bottle for a man who tells me he was born in palestine and grew up in jordan. it is not like christchurch there, he says. there are more hills.
I'm in the market for a new title for this.
