Poppy, he loves telling stories. He sits there on his chair on the lawn and he leans forward, his legs wide open and his arms on his knees, his belly hanging over his too-tight polyester pants. He’s so close to me sitting on my chair that I can see the red veins on his nose and I know it’s going to be a good story.
He tells me the story of the time when a fourteen-year-old Dom stole a six pack he found inside his room at the home. ‘I knew it was him. Obvious you know? He must have stuck it in his school bag when he went to the bathroom, like I wouldn’t notice six cans missing. I was going to talk to him about it but before I could, I found him passed out in the park across the road a couple of hours later.’
‘Your mum always thought the sun and the moon and the stars shined out his arse. That boy was trouble. That’s why I miss him so much.’ Poppy leans in closer so I can feel his beer breath on my cheek and says ‘It’s alright to miss him you know.’