Page 4 of Love Is…?

She gazed at him across her mug. His eyes were bright today, which was a good sign. The dull days when shadows played ‘now you see me now you don’t’ across his face were the hardest. Those days were her non-writing days. Those days she sat on the couch with her father, happy to silently endure hours of Netflix romcoms because the warm fuzzy endings chased away his dark.

The car accident, when Jayde was sixteen, had stolen some of Oliver Ferguson’s memories, some mobility, some intellect, and some independence, but gifted him all of an Acquired Brain Injury. Not a fair exchange. Since then, his intellectual understanding of the world was viewed through a rather simple lens.

Jayde had watched him retreat into himself for fourteen years, only allowing the outside world access via the internet, magazines and newspapers. Actual physical newspapers. It was like walking onto the set of a 1980s sitcom when she found him sitting in his armchair, legs crossed, newspaper dextrously held upright so none of the pages sagged. That skill was dying out.

Therefore, the projects, such as this one. The dad jokes had lasted three months so far and didn’t look like fading away. Good.

“So what’s on for tomorrow?” her father asked.

“I’m meeting Dylan for coffee, then heading over to the State Library to chat with one of the historians for that piece I’m working on. The—” Jayde flapped her hand—“Ode to Melbourne’s Past exhibition they’re trying to get up.” She smiled. “What about you?”

“I’m going to take a walk to the gardens. There is a new section open and Thomas invited me to have a look.” He beamed.

That had been a recent development. The once-a-week walk to the gardens had resulted in Thomas, native plants curator, striking up a two-older-men-chatting-about-plants-and-seedlings friendship, which then resulted in her father being given early access to new displays. Jayde was positive that Thomas knew that Oliver Ferguson wouldn’t cope with crowds of native plant enthusiasts ooh-ing and aah-ing over mini eucalyptus trees, therefore ‘Admiration Afternoons’. Attendance: one.

“Awesome, Dad. Okay, well.” She rose, pushed her stool under the kitchen counter dinette, and rinsed her mug in the sink. “I’m going back to work for the evening. You’re all good here?”

Her father stood and walked around the bench. He clasped Jayde’s shoulders. “I’m always good, love. Thank you for checking up on me.”

Jayde opened her mouth to protest, then closed it, and smiled ruefully. “Night, Dad. I love you.”

Dylan was latewhich was absolutely not surprising. It was his thing, just like his beard and khaki pants. Jayde sipped her flat white, then placed the cup back on the saucer, the table giving a little wobble despite her foot pressed firmly on top of the metal bars at the base. The pavements in the Melbourne city laneways were not for the faint-hearted or stiletto-wearing souls.

“Fabulous. You ordered.” Dylan dropped into the seat opposite, looking like he always did; like he’d stepped from the pages ofStereotypemagazine. His battered leather jacket, messenger bag, slightly dishevelled hair, unkempt beard, bushy eyebrows hovering over eyes that took in everything, and the nonchalant attitude all created the impression of a seasoned journalist enjoying a coffee before catching a flight to Kabul to interview the Australian ambassador to Afghanistan. Jayde loved the affectations. Hehadtravelled overseas for a couple of his essays, if New Zealand and Norfolk Island counted. But beyond all of that, Dylan was an immensely talented journalist and essayist with a highly-tuned radar for writing opportunities, and if Dylan wanted to catch up for coffee, then catching up for coffee they did.

“No. Get your own bloody order and hello to you, too.”

They grinned at each other.

Dylan had come into her life at a rally for climate change. They’d literally bumped into each other. Dylan had complimented Jayde on the wittiness of her placard—The climate is now more irregular than my period—then Jayde had invited him to join the rowdy group thrown together by the Victoria Uni pub, and when both found out that theywere in similar careers, they continued their friendship beyond attempting to hold their line against the police.

With his skinny ristretto—extra hot—placed on the table, Dylan sat back in his seat, and raised the undergrowth that was his eyebrows.

“So.”

“What?”

He dug into his bag and pulled out a piece of paper. “Old school print out. Much more dramatic. I get to play secret agent.”

He pushed it across the table.

Jayde picked it up, recognised it as an email and read the text. Then she jerked her head up to stare at her friend. “Is this coming up?”

“Yes. Want to hear the extra bits?”

Jayde put the email down, and picked up her coffee. “Go for it.”

Dylan rubbed his hands together. “Okay. So that”—he pointed to the email—“is a callout for journalists to write one essay in a series of essays.” He held up a finger. “Profiles. Six different people of note at various stages of their lives or careers. One essay, six essays in total, one journalist per essay. All six essays follow the theme Love Is…”

“Love is?”

“Exactly.”

“No, I mean…Whatdoesthat mean?”

“It means just that. Within their essay the subject is asked, among the regular interview questions, to give their interpretation of love. Their definition. They’ll finish the sentence ‘Love is’.” He tapped the table on the last two words as if to demonstrate their importance.

Jayde blinked. “And these essays are standard length?”

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