Mike Dixon

David was reminded of a picture Tim had painted in his
army days when he was stationed in the north. It was a
beach scene, not much different from the present. Crimson
sky, blue-grey mountains and an azure sea cut by a brilliant
band of yellow sand. He used to think the colors exaggerat-
ed. Now he knew they were true to life. For a brief moment,
when the sun went down, that was what you saw.
He watched his friend come back along the beach. The
light was more subdued now. The sharp contrasts of a mi-
nute ago had been replaced by subtle hues. Pink had
changed to violet, once-sharp edges were blurred and Tim
was little more than a dark shape in the twilight. He arrived
with a collection of marine junk and dumped it down beside
the Landcruiser. David hoped he‟d sort through it and not
try to take the whole lot back to Canberra.
They had bought a pair of bream from some Aboriginal
lads who were fishing on a bridge near Cairns. Tim had negotiated
a price that seemed more than generous to David
but he was not surprised. Tim enjoyed a chat and had a
casual attitude towards money.
The fish were rubbed with spices and wrapped in foil. Tim
had spent part of his army days in Malaysia and claimed to
be an expert on Malaysian women and Malaysian cooking.
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