by Don Zelma
Chapter One
Dan Amos calmly waited, tapping his fingers on his old oak desk. A beam cracked above his head as the house began to warm in the morning sun. Behind him, the light through the slats split into white lines across the concrete and the tall timber posts holding up the house began casting shadows. He reached out, opened the glass louvers and felt the cold air on his face. The cane ash from the window sill fluttered about the room like burnt newspaper and a Rosella’s bright colours flashed past the glass and he watched it braking and turning like a fighter across the yard. He could see the valley through a gap in the hibiscus over the gate. It was foggy amid the trunks of the nature strip and he glimpsed the river far below with five or six yachts moored on the brown water. Several Queenslander homes stood tall on their posts on the far bank and in a distant field an irrigator’s silver jet sparkled down into the cane and he thought it looked beautiful in the amber light.
He slowly sat in his armchair, his joints stiff from the cold and his mature years, and felt the soft leather under his hands as he rolled the chair in under his desk. The many books of his library gave the office an old paper smell. Mini stood up in her basket and quietly crossed the parquet floor and leapt up onto his lap.
‘Hey… How are you today, Sweetie?’ he said. He felt the soft narrowness of her neck and watched her eyes close on each gentle stroke of his fingers. The Jack Russell placed a paw up onto the desk and peered out of the window. She saw another Rosella on the lawn; she leapt to the floor and ran out the door, barking a little dog bark.
The room fell quiet and Dan patiently waited, staring out the window. The grandfather clock beat gently behind him and he began tapping his pen on the chair to its rhythm. Suddenly, the phone rang and startled him. He donned his reading glasses and reached out across the desk for his appointment book.
