Mulled Wine - Flash Fiction

“What if we never grow up?” She looks at me, the question heavy in her eyes as though it isn’t a childish fantasy. “What if we stay young forever?”

I smile, ignoring the seriousness of her tone and picking up my plastic cup. The mulled wine is warm against my fingers and the smell of the spices makes my mouth water. I take a sip then hold the cup up between us. “We’d have to lie about our age to buy drinks… forever.”

“True, but isn’t that half the fun?” Her eyes twinkle.

“I dunno. I sort of think it might be fun to buy a drink without the looming threat of getting caught.”

She reaches for the joint that rests between the fingers of my other hand. I pass it to her and watch her take a long drag. She holds her breath, refusing to exhale until the last possible moment. Around wisps of smoke she says, “Because you’re all about doing the right thing?”

I realise I’ve been holding my breath too, allowing time to stop for that tiny moment between us. I let it out, a long slow sigh that starts the world back into motion.

I don’t bother answering her question. 

“Don’t you want to grow old with me?” I ask, knowing I sound petulant.

“No,” she says, pulling me up off our makeshift seat of discarded crates. She spins me round until I’m dizzy, then sways with me to drum beats that bounce off the walls around us. “I want to stay young with you.”

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Next month marks the 15th anniversary of Rektango. Most people outside of Hobart (and many Hobartians themselves), will have no idea what “Rektango” is, but it was a hugely important part of my teen years. Every Friday evening after school we’d run down to a small courtyard off the wharfs. At that time it was a small event, but it grew pretty quickly. Families were there, old people, kids, and, of course, teens up to no good. That was us. They sold mulled wine there – the sort that makes your head spin from only a sip, but mostly due to the sugar content, and there was a constant refrain from the band reminding us that the event would be shut down if the police caught anyone smoking pot, “They can smell it, you guys.” The event was never shut down, though. The first band to play regularly was called Rektango, and eventually the event took on that name. Now it’s huge, and small at the same time (kind of like Hobart). Crowds of people stuffed into this tiny courtyard, dancing madly and without a care in the world to music that sings in your veins.

Anyway, I was just thinking about Rektango this evening, and being young, and other things, so I wrote this little piece. xx