Her, after a snowstorm
The sky is black, red, and blue like a bruise. I press on it a little just to feel it ache. It spins above me, the world smearing into streaks of paint.
I roll over just in time as the second wave of vomit rushes up to greet me. I hongi the sidewalk, pressing my nose into the concrete, staring into my mess. The bile moves and flexes like a pool of ectoplasm. I rest my cheek on the lip of the gutter. Lena scrunches my hair into a fist.
‘Get it out, get it all out.’
With one hand, she pats my back—her other scrolls through her phone. My stomach has nothing left to settle, but the sky keeps spinning, so glaringly void of stars.
The light pollution here always unsettled us, didn’t it? You used to curse the Auckland sky with such passion.
‘Are you all good? Kua mutu?’
I nod, wiping my lip with the back of my hand.
‘Yeah, just needed a humble tacky.’
I sit up, scooching away from the pool of vomit. I don’t even feel embarrassed, just a little silly. Plus, Lena never makes me feel bad. She looms over me, eyes brighter than bright. Her pupils are so dark, they swallow the iris, like pools of molasses.
She helps me off the pavement as she teeters in her heels. I think she says something else, something about wanting to go back inside, are you okay? Do you need water? No, no I’m good, don’t worry about me, I’m fine I promise, you go have fun, enjoy the party, are you sure? Because I’m here if you need, I know things have been hard since—
Your name is on the tip of her tongue.
‘I’m fine.’
She swallows it. I couldn’t stand it if she wanted to talk about it now, the forlorn look that would cross her face, the sting of the reminder.
‘You go ahead. I’ll be back inside in a second.’
She pats me on the head and limps off, too high to feign interest in me anymore. I appreciate the honesty in her gesture.
I sense the shadows moving in, the night starting to crowd around me. A fantail skitters across the footpath. Then, the clinking of gold coins. I crane my neck.
‘Oh, oh, ohhhh, you can stand me up at the gates of hell, but I won’t back down.’
The shadows part around the melody. Despite the hacking cough and slurred speech, there’s a solid voice there, tinged with a kapa haka harmony.
The man is wearing a top hat and corduroy jacket. He’s got fingerless gloves on, wrapped around a bottle in a brown paper bag. He looks familiar. It could’ve been me who offered him money or a dart once, I don’t know. I just smile at him, a reflex. The coins stop clinking.
‘I knew I’d find you here,’ he says, speaking to the pavement. The pavement says nothing back.
I try not to make it obvious that I’m observing him.
‘No, you,’ he says, his nicotine-stained fingertips pointing at me like he’s aiming a gun. Apparently, he’s been observing me, too.
‘Me?’
‘Who else?’
‘Why me?’
‘Because why not?’
‘What even is me? Do we even exist?’
I play stupid games when I’m drunk.
‘Good point. You got me there.’
He narrows his eyes at me as if checking to see that I do exist, like I might be hallucinated. I almost wish that I was.
‘Who really knows, eh?’
‘Not me, Matua. Not me.’
He pauses, tipping his head back as he takes a swig from the bag. He smells flammable.
‘Have you ever been time travelling before?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, I’m about to offer you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.’
Tacky aside, I am feeling just the right amount of chaotic and drunk. I’ve never been time travelling before and maybe this man holds the key to it. Or maybe it’ll be funny to see what story he pulls out of his ass. I hoist myself up off the sidewalk, brushing the pebbles off. I step over the pool of vomit, wiping my chin with the back of my hand. I slide my hand into my pocket and wrap my fingers around your black cherry Bic lighter, looking for reassurance that I haven’t dropped it. I gesture to him.
‘Lead the way.’
Yes, I’m acutely aware of the man-woman power imbalance at play here. You would tell me I’m an idiot for following this guy, that I’m not as tough as I think I am, that I have no concept of the streets, like you were the saint of them. And I would ignore you because you aren’t here to throw me over your shoulder and stop me. I would tell you that the streetlights are on, it’s a busy night, and I did three boxing classes two years ago and, hey, I’m drunk, and to be honest, bro, I don’t care if I live or die anymore.
I’m trailing behind him just a little bit. We are falling in and out of the lip of the floodlights with a woman in a poorly fitting dress, a group of first-years stumbling by in tops they have to keep hoisting up, and a group of 20-something boys with burning faces and swinging jaws.
Matua stops and, turning to make sure I’m still behind him, ducks into a phone booth. It’s one of those old Telecom ones, the kind I’m too generationally inept to know how to operate.
‘Are you coming in?’
I bite my lip, swaying as I start to question my own judgment just a little bit. I quickly flip Lena a text:
Just using the phone box at Broadway, across from Yash’s dairy. SENT.
I snap the purple wallet case of my phone shut and slip it into my other coat pocket. I slide into the phone booth across from him. He flicks his lighter, a warm glow illuminating his face. Shadows etch the lines of his cheeks, the beads of sweat and in the wrinkles of his forehead, his gray stubble. Now that I’m closer to him, he looks even more familiar, but his skin has a filmy quality. He looks like a photograph from my father’s childhood, like an uncle or a cousin who might’ve held me as a baby. One that I never saw again.
‘Now, my dear, where to?’
I might be young, but I catch the Doctor Who reference.
You used to love Doctor Who. Moisturise me, Moisturise me.
‘Can we go anywhere in this TARDIS? What, do you just punch in the date here?’ I say, pointing to the phone.
I hate thinking of you in the past tense.
He frowns and tsks at me, looking genuinely disappointed.
‘You and I both know that time is not as simple and linear as all that.’
I wish I could tie your lifeline in a bow.
‘No, no, you must hold a time in your mind and spin around five times.’
Wow, okay, not as simple as numbers, but as simple as spinning around. I suppress a sigh and say okay and, because I insist on always playing along, I try to hold a time in my mind and Kei te mokemoke ahau is all I can muster—your deep belly laugh and how you would shake your head at my stupidity.
Still dizzy from the alcohol, I feel like I’m going to be sick again, like the world is tilting, falling off its axis. Matua comes back into focus again and, deadly serious, looks me in the eye and says:
‘You can get out now.’
I stumble out of the phone booth and before I can even say goodbye, he slinks off into the night like a stray cat. I giggle to myself at the absurdity of it all, at my own absurdity. I turn to face the shops again, and I see that alleyway. It calls me, and I let it lead. I am mischief again and the way is familiar. I turn the corner and there it is, the very place I’ve been avoiding.
It takes me a second to realise that I’m back at that old tree stump, our old tree stump. The one that overlooks the park and the crude syringes of the Auckland skyline. The stump where the police never passed by—shrouded by nīkau trees and overgrown monstera. The one you carved our initials in, but spelled mine wrong just to spite me.
I’m not ready. I can feel you slipping, slipping, slipping.
‘Do you want a cigarette?’
I turn my head and see those familiar features. Those defined cheeks, nephrite eyes, and dark brown skin; skin so filmy it’s like the photo beside my bed. I swallow and I want to tell you that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about your eyes and how they’re the first thing to go.
‘Sure,’ I say. I’m holding my breath, like it’ll stop the spell from breaking. I reach over to the open packet of Marlboro Menthols and reach for the upside-down one.
‘Tss. Bruh. Not my lucky cigarette.’
I roll my eyes and take the next one. You reach for my black cherry lighter in my pocket, your hands cupping mine to shield the wind, and light it for me. I inhale, slowly, trying to catch my breath, but my eyes don’t leave yours. They’re like a basin I could fall into. I can feel the weight of them, heavy, overflowing. All the things I couldn’t say while you were here.
‘Been busy?’
I don’t know why I ask it. It sounds stupid. And you answer dryly as always.
‘No. Not really.’
You break the gaze first, casting it into the distance. I reach over, my hand trembling, to touch yours. It’s cold. Freezing, like touching ice. I hold it there anyway. My fingers burn with the cold, but I can’t bring myself to let go.
I look away, across the park towards the small footpath and the bridge up ahead. A man in a top hat and corduroy jacket skips across the bridge. Ay, it’s Matua. I stand up to wave at him, and he waves back. But then, I see the flash of purple in his hand. Oh shit. I fumble for my pockets, and the realization hits me with a sickening thud. There it is, the purple wallet case—my phone, in his hand.
‘Motherfucker!’ I scream. Matua howls with laughter at the moon, clicks his heels and runs off into the palms.
Beside me, I hear your laugh. That deep belly laugh I used to love so much, the one that always made me laugh too, even when I didn’t want to. Your laugh echoes all around me, a sound so familiar it aches.
I laugh, too, despite myself. I never could stop myself. My sides hurt, and I turn back to you again.
But you’re not there anymore.
The tree stump is cold.
Snow begins to fall.
Elise Sadlier was born and raised in Tūranganui-a-Kiwa, and is living in Tamaki. Elise completed her BFA with Honours in 2022, and her Diploma of Māori Language Fluency at Te Wānanga Takiura o Ngā Kura Kauapapa Māori o Aotearoa in 2024. Elise’s writing has been published in Starling, Pantograph Punch, bad apple, Pūhia Rua, and more. Her debut poetry collection, Sooky La-La is awaiting publication with Auckland University Press.