a late night rendezvous

Hawthorn, VIC. May 2017.

I was walking down Glenferrie Road around midnight, jacket zipped, hands in pockets, just trying to get home. The crossing stood as a silent juncture — and it was there that the threads of fate wove an unexpected encounter.

Two figures emerged from my left, stumbling through the night’s haze. Laughter. The uneven rhythm of footsteps. A chance meeting — unforeseen, unusual. One of them, a guy, locked eyes and walked up to me, a complete stranger.

"Where ya goin'? Can we come with you?” he asked, breathless.

I didn’t answer. Just kept walking, a little more aware of my pace. I wasn’t sure what they wanted.

"We got kicked out of a hotel," said the guy — tall, red-headed, now trailing a step behind me.

The girl, blonde and flushed, let out a short laugh. "We didn’t get kicked out," she said, swaying slightly as she nudged him. "Anyway... can we walk with you?"

Again, I didn’t answer. They were both clearly drunk, and I wasn't sure who they thought they were talking to. But they didn’t wait — just naturally fell in step beside me.

"We came to meet a friend," she said. "But he never showed up."

"Yeah, we’re kind of on our own now— where ya goin'?" he asked again.

I told them I was just heading home. They acted like that was a perfectly reasonable destination for all three of us.

I wasn’t about to take them back with me but they seemed harmless enough. That alone felt like reason enough to keep walking with them, up and down the street.

She asked me what I was doing, then interrupted halfway through my answer to say, "You’ve got a nice voice."

I smiled, not quite sure what to do with that. "Thanks," I said, still smiling — still a little thrown by the randomness of the night.

"See? I never get compliments like that," the guy said.

(She snapped back at him with a line that I don't fully remember anymore.)

We all shared a laugh after the friendly banter.

At some point, he leaned against me like I was a railing. She walked just ahead of us, singing something half-remembered under her breath. The streets were mostly empty. There was nowhere to be, so we didn’t rush.

We sat on a lonesome bench along the street — me in the middle, without meaning to be. I glanced at them and asked, "So... what's the plan, guys?"

She frowned a little, swaying gently. "I don’t know," she said, exasperated, possibly a bit irritated by my question.

The guy, who had gone quiet, gave a helpless shrug. He was slouched forward, elbows on his knees, eyes following cars like they were thoughts he couldn’t hold onto.

Then she turned to me, suddenly earnest. "Will you come with us? Please. I’ll pay you. I’ll pay you fifty dollars," she said, gripping my arm.

I blinked. "You don’t have to pay me," I said. "Where are you guys from?"

She rolled her eyes, like the question didn’t matter. Then, after a beat — "Bundoora."

The guy glanced over at that, like he’d just remembered where he was. Bundoora was a ways off. I briefly thought about booking them an Uber — just getting them somewhere safe.

She continued, "We were at a party in a hotel nearby. Our friend was supposed to be here."

I looked between them and asked again, "So, what’s the plan now?"

She didn’t answer — just looped her arm through mine and stood up. “Let’s go back,” she said. "Just for a drink."

The guy stood too, slowly. "We could try," he said, more to himself than anyone else.

As we walked, she leaned into me for support, her steps uneven. She kept calling it The Peacock Hotel, though I knew that wasn’t a real place. We finally stalled outside a bar that students liked for cheap Tuesday drinks — fitting, since they both looked like they hadn’t been out of university long.

Meanwhile, she was rummaging through her bag. "I had fifty dollars," she said. Out came a 50 cent coin (which in hindsight is pretty funny). "I swear I was gonna pay you," she said.

"You don’t need to," I insisted.

The guy let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

Then, almost as if remembering something mid-thought: "God, I’m starving." She looked up. "You coming?" she asked him. Then to me: "You too?"

Before I could answer, she grabbed his hand and started across the road toward a late-night convenience store. Then she turned back to me. "Promise me you'll meet me again — pinky promise," she said, holding out her little finger.

We sealed the promise with a pinky in the air, and then — in a flash of impulsive haste — she darted across the street.

"Yeah, thanks mate," he said, giving me a sideways hug — sloppy, but affectionate — before jogging after her.

I stood back and watched them for a while. Soon, they disappeared inside the convenience store.

I turned and walked the rest of the way home, carrying a little of their warmth with me. I never saw them again.