Armour-piercing eyes

I live in a little town beside the seas – a grand old lady of a suburb who, having not heard of Botox or bodyguards, was running deeply to seed. Today a group of 3rd generation residents are revitalising her, but not in the way of gentrification. In any street you’ll fing students, surfers, start-up families and pensioners living beside the boutique business owners and designers.

There are also beach-walking outties, and it’s their eyes I can’t meet – not out of guilt or disgust, but because I’ll see the person inside those eyes, and then I’m fair game for all kinds of complications.

It’s how I’m wired – outward trappings often just feel like obstacles I have to clamber over before I can shout: “Hey, anyone home? I’ve brought cake/wine/books – let’s talk.”

Problem is, for them I’m prey.


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