“I can’t remember what you look like,” I admitted to Cole one day. “I know I thought you were a bit on the yummy side, but let’s face it, I was drunk and slovenly and talking shit on a chaise to a total stranger.”

He paused.

“Check your email,” he said.

He’d sent me a photo of himself walking away from the camera. A tall body and the back of a messy head was all that was visible.

“You’re an asshole,” was all I could muster.

“Check it again.”

I checked.

“Yep, you’re funny.”

I examined the crime scene. Self portraits with spilled red paint can appear quite realistic and gory if you squint hard enough.

“Nice. You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you.”

The months passed. Two of them, to be exact. Weird things kept happening that hinted at a cosmic intervention working for us as a couple.

One night Cole went to a dinner party in LA and sat next to an old friend to whom he described the tall, mad Australian girl who was capturing his heart and mind from the other side of the world. His friend looked at him quizzically and interjected, “Oh. You must mean Zoë Brock. Where the hell is that wild horse of a woman these days, anyway?”

Soon I would be heading to Fiji, to begin work on a book project I’d been commissioned to research and write for, a project that fell by the wayside after many hapless adventures in paradise and a falling out with the contractor. In Fiji I’d be harder to contact, via email or phone.

“You know,” Cole stated one day. “All I need is a formal invitation and three days notice, and I’ll be anywhere you tell me to be.”

It was a scary proposal.

Do you meet your perfect person, only to have them be a lesser creature in reality than what you imagined? Or do you keep the status quo and let this cerebral love stay an indefinite, intangible, gossamer thing?

“Maybe,” he added. “We meet soon, or maybe we never meet at all? You decide. By the way, a magazine I never subscribed to just arrived INSIDE MY HOUSE, and the cover story is ‘Romantic Getaways For two In Fiji’, just so you know.”

A mystery? A sign?

Compelling, confusing stuff.

So I did what every sensible Australian girl in Melbourne does when confronted with a dilemma….

…. I flew to Sydney and got wasted.

“This is an insane story. You have to meet him.”

“I’m terrified.”

“Shut up. You have to invite him.”

“What if it’s horrible, Sar? What if he has a tiny little invisible penis?”

“Well… Considering he’s that tall it’s almost an impossibility. Granted, that would be a fucking disaster, but you’re never going to know unless you meet him.”

“Pass me the damn tequila.”

“Lemon? Here, salt. Tell me more.”

“I don’t know what else to tell. Tall, dark, and kinky as a twisted pipe-cleaner.”

“He sounds perfect.”

“Did I mention he works for an environmental cause?”

“You’re fucked then. This is it.”

“Oh god.”

“Invite him. Now. Here, tequila, laptop, email…. now.”

Blearily I typed.

Dear Mr —— Esq,

This is a formal invitation written on behalf of one Zoe Brock, by one Zoe Brock, to invite you to join her in Sydney, Australia at your earliest convenience, for fun, frivolity and other indoor sports, maybe, and to potentially accompany her to Fiji (unless homicide has been enacted upon either of the above parties, by either one of the above parties) within the allocated Australia-time.

Sincerely and with much trepidation,

Zoe Brock.

I pressed ’send’. The tequila repeated itself in my esophagus.

“Now you’ve done it.” Snickered my dearest friend. “He is SO going to have a tiny little cock.”

“Fucking hell.”

The airport was crowded and the throng made my head splinter.

“What sort of asshole gets a flight that arrives at 7 am anyway?”

I flushed, realizing I was muttering to myself, and tried to breathe without hyperventilating. The last three days had been a heady mixture of dread and anticipation, suspicious wishes and tentative hope.

From my perch on the railing that separated arriving travelers from the hordes awaiting them I had an ample view of the doors, but there had been no sight of him. It was past 8 so surely he must be through customs and baggage by now? I shifted, nervous, fraught with icky tension, and scanned the crowd of people waiting for someone special or new. I surveyed the crowd of lifted, expectant faces, the broad smiles and eager eyes and… oh, shit… there… on the outside of the crowd… watching me with a wicked glint and a rumpled demeanor… stood a tall, scruffy devil in a Gucci tuxedo.

He grinned.

I blushed a horrid shade of brilliant vermilion.

I smiled. Shy.

We stared at each other with quizzical joy.

“Hello,” I squeaked.

“Hello there.”

“Nice tuxedo.”

“Thanks. I thought you might not recognize me unless I wore it.”

“Did you change into it on the plane?”

“Nope,” he beamed with pride. “I checked in wearing this sucker and, let me tell you, I got some hella props from the brother behind the desk.”

There are moments in your life when you are overwhelmed with certainty. Of course I say this with the ugliness of retrospect and the knowledge that the love affair I’m describing didn’t have the strength, foundation, or capacity to survive the difficulties it encountered, but for a while there it was the most obvious thing in the cosmos. The world had thrown us together.

Those first few hours were an odd dream. We fitted. It was so easy and nice, so right and natural. We were dazed.

The hotel was perfect and the French bubbles cold. I can’t remember if we drank from glasses, or straight from the bottle, regardless, we didn’t need alcohol, we were already intoxicated.

We got naked. We screwed and giggled and played and talked and fucked and kissed and laughed and examined each other. It was beautiful.

Drunk on sex and love and duty-free booze I confessed my size-terror. He was amused. “That’s nothing,” he replied. “My friends have been telling me all along that you were probably a man.”

The next day was Cole’s birthday and we celebrated with feasts and wine and sneaky, public sex in a park as the afternoon wore into night. And the next day we flew to Fiji.


With an edge.

If I’d known how Fiji was going to impact on my spirit and sanity, and ultimately upon my new relationship, I might not have gone, but I didn’t know that and I boarded the plane with a hope-filled heart and head dizzy with love.

To be continued……

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ZOE BROCK was born in New Zealand and raised in Australia. She has lived in more cities and on more continents than she can count (truly, she's a model and can't count) and is currently residing in the deep fog of San Francisco. Her true home lies on the dusty plains of Burning Man where she feels safe and challenged and truly alive. Zoë once had a very popular blog on MySpace and writes everything from awful poetry to truly delicious dark satire, and all sorts of sexy things in between. She has appeared on the cover of Elle magazine, inside the pages of Vogue, Cosmo and Marie Claire, to name a few, and is working on her memoir, an expose of 'growing up model'. Zoë is also a certified yoga teacher. Yes, that means she's bendy.

One response to “The Love Chronicles, Part 3- The Continuing Saga of an Author with No Brain and the Ability to Sabotage the Good Stuff”

  1. […] often writes about love: love and loss, love and relationship-sabotage, love and more relationship-sabotage, love and homecomings, love and happy […]

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