After Inna died, my friendship with Anthony consolidated itself and developed into an invincible platonic relationship. We became passionately siblingish and avoided the nuances. He was my best friend – simple – and I was his – not so simple.
And Anthony could cook steak to perfection. His method was to light the funny little outside barbecue, toss the fillet steak onto it (it had to be fillet), turn it over a couple of times and voila! I had never tasted anything like it – no blood, no charcoal, just perfect steak.
I would come home from Perth to stay with my mother in the adjacent town, then visit Anthony for lunch and, during one of these visits, while he was cooking the steak outside, the phone rang. Without thinking (after all, I had answered the phone for Inna for two years), I answered it just as I heard Anthony shout from outside, “Don’t answer it!”
It was the girlfriend and, as soon as she heard my voice, she went so verbally ballistic that I actually dropped the phone into its cradle, my hands shaking because I had never been screamed and shouted at before and I had never been called the things this stupid woman called me. Anthony came in and yelled at me and told me to go home to my mother’s place.
Until then I had dismissed this girlfriend as the other woman but on this steakless day I realized that I was the other woman.
Anthony loved to run. He didn’t need a horse or a motorbike to round up cattle and get them from one paddock to another; he just needed his own legs. Sometimes he would get me to help by yelling, “C’mon, Jules, run!” But I could never run as fast as he did, which was a bit embarrassing.
He had the most muscly legs I have ever seen – huge calves, massive thighs – and he always wore those footy shorts, you know the black ones, and he always wore football socks too. So he kind of resembled a football player I guess – big, strong, energetic and, in my eyes (and his own!) perfect.
Sometimes I would just watch him run because it was like watching someone glide through a mirror, or a window; it was like watching magic.
This love story is mostly of good memories, with a sprinkling of not-so-good memories, but it is the good ones that have suddenly bunched themselves into a fist and smacked me. So today I am having a little break.
[Note: I am copy/pasting these ‘chapters’ exactly the way I wrote them before in the other blog – this latter one is when the story began to upset me a bit].