Caravellum

She opens the article again, and scrolls down to the photo. That composition of wreckage, smoke, and flames. Missiles in flight, credited to Paula. She smiles, remembering when she used to swing around their dad’s old Nikon, taking pictures of cockies in the gumtrees. It lasts just a moment. Too far away now; her sister and those memories.

There’s a rev of an engine. She wipes the window with her sleeve, smearing sweat across its hazy surface. She peers through the glare of the afternoon sun as the ute trundles out of the billowing duststorm, swerving in a smooth arc around the jagged lesions in the asphalt. He pulls up by the pumps, FM radio blaring loud, and slides out in resplendent hi-vis daks and wraparound sunnies. His bare chest and beer belly are stark white against the tanned crown across his neck and shoulders. He lopes a half-shuffle through the carpark, righting a wedgie through his pockets, and cracks the door open. The heat enters with him like a wave, pinning her against the back wall by the cigarette cabinets and the aircon unit. She watches him as he makes his practiced waltz through the servo; a twist by the drinks fridge to hold his face in, a glide by the ice cream cabinet to chill his hands, and then, finally, to the counter.

“Alright, Becks.” He says, slurring it into an ‘x’.
“Alright, Milky.” The mysterious nickname he has yet to explain.
“40 litres, ta.” He says, placing a rolled cigarette behind his ear as he wrenches a thumb out towards the pumps.
She punches it into the computer, acrylics cracking against the worn display.
“$96.50.”
“Yeah, pull the other one. Just of the 91.”
“That is the 91.” She turns the screen around to show him.
“Jesus.” He peers out the window to look at the price display outside, barely legible through the layer of red dust and dirt. “241?! They blow it all up or something?”
“Something like that. In Iran or Kuwait. Qatar maybe, I’m not sure.”
He shakes his head as he fingers out two fifties from his wallet, flicking the yellow notes across the counter.
“Used to work on the refineries, ya know.” He says.
“Didn’t know you had a passport.”
“Nah, in Geelong.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, a couple swings in a place like that, and you wouldn’t blame them for kicking off.”
She counts out the change on the counter and passes it to him.
“At least I’ve still got enough for the Chiko roll.” He laughs.
She averts her gaze from the tongs by the warmer.
“You’re kidding me.”
She shakes her head.
“$5.50.”
“What?! They’re sending them as rations or something?”
“Wheat shortage.” She says. “Ukraine.”
He eyes the warmer, rubbing the coins between his fingers. He clicks his tongue against his teeth, offers a nod, and walks out while muttering beneath his breath.
“War really takes from us all.”