Raw Blue by Kirsty Eagar

while he works he listens to old LPs because their sound is pure and deep, not like the digitised sine curve of a CD.
    Well, that’s what I like to think anyhow. My idea of Bernard has got a fair dash of romanticism. The rock critic, a dying breed, sort of like the last cowboy.
    This week Bernard is being cheeky. His review of Korn’s Live and Rare is downright flippant: Hey, Korn, live and rare? Hey, Korn, we don’t care . And that’s it. That’s it! But he gives me the good stuff in a review of Sodastream’s Reservations . He says, This is delicate low-key pop, sad and slightly fluttery , but laments, Sodastream don’t break your heart in the way you want them too . The best Bernard reviews are full of tragedy.
    ‘You’re so brown.’ Georgina’s voice. I look up to see her wiping down one of the tables near me. She peers at my arms. ‘Is it fake tan?’
    I clear my throat, uncomfortable with her scrutiny. ‘It’s from surfing. I put sunscreen on but I guess it’s not enough. I’m going to be a prune when I get old.’
    Georgina straightens up. ‘Do you surf?’
    I nod.
    ‘Like really surf? Or are you just learning?’
    I shrug. ‘I surf.’
    ‘Can you take me sometime? I’ve been wanting to learn to surf.’
    She says it as though it’s not the hardest sport in the world, just something you pop out and do, like taking a driving test.
    ‘Yeah, okay.’
    I don’t know why I’m saying yes. I’ve taken people surfing before and it’s been a waste of time. Not one of them has passed the paddling test. That’s the way you know you’re going to stick with surfing, if you never give up when you’re trying to get out, even if it’s really big and the lines of white water are relentless and you’ve got spaghetti arms and you haven’t moved more than ten metres away from the shoreline in the twenty minutes you’ve been paddling.
    ‘Really? You’ll take me?’ Georgina squeals.
    I nod. ‘I’ve only got a shortboard though, so you might have to get a board. You know, something bigger to learn on.’
    ‘I’ve got a board. I bought a really cute one with frangipanis on it so I’d be inspired. When can we go?’
    Well, I hate frangipanis, but what I say is, ‘Whenever you want. I surf every day. Just ring me when you want to come.’
    See, there it is. I want Georgina to like me. I hate that about myself.
    The Steyne is crowded. We sit on stools around a table downstairs. I can’t hear what Georgina is shouting at me but I nod anyway. She goes over to Marty and pushes her way in between his knees to shout in his face. He’s nodding in time to the music and she must take that as a yes, because she rushes off.
    When I look over at Marty again he’s watching me. He stands up, grabs my hands and pulls me to my feet, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.
    ‘Come on,’ he says in my ear, lurching suddenly to the right. ‘Let’s go.’
    I steady him. ‘What about Georgina?’
    Heavy-lidded, he tries to compute what I’ve just said. Then Georgina is back, looking sulky, making a big deal about the three bottles of beer she’s placing on the table.
    Later, outside, my ears are still ringing from the music.
    ‘Well, thanks guys, that was fun,’ Georgina shrills.
    She sounds so sparky and I wonder at her energy. I couldn’t force a voice like that if I tried. Marty staggers sideways, bumping into me.
    ‘What do you want to do now?’ Georgina asks, looking at me because Marty’s staring down at the pavement.
    ‘Get Marty’s stomach pumped, I think. No, I’m going home. I am so tired.’
    The night seems like an empty promise. I feel older than I am, old enough to not enjoy sitting around silently in a place where we couldn’t have talked to each other even if we did have something to say. I wish that Marty was home in his own head but he’s missing in action tonight.
    ‘Do you want a life?’ I ask Georgina, then blink when I realise what I’ve said. ‘I mean a lift?’
    ‘No. I only