Wonderboy

"I hate that Crabtree." Allan is fishing in his pocket for cigarettes. Dunhills. He knows how Susan hates them, watches the way she crinkles her nose, looks away every time he lights one.

"Can you believe the way Hanna practically threw herself at him? Disgusting." Susan thinks everything is disgusting: Hanna, Dunhills, the way the seaweed in the inner harbour clings to the dock, thick and wreaking of fish. Allan sighs. Susan glares at him.

"Do you have to do that?" Susan says, narrowing her eyes at him through the haze of cigarette smoke. Allan doesn't know if she's referring to his smoking or his sighing.

"Red at night, sailors' delight. Red in the morning, sailors' warning." The sun is setting over the harbour, dragged down by the weight of the day. Susan used to notice things like the sunset, but lately all she's been interested in is nagging Allan, smears of crimson and gold on the horizon.

"That wasn't a very good movie," declares Susan and Allan can only agree.