Spotted Lily Read Online Free PDF

world. History and garlic were intertwined. Something didn't add up, but I didn't have the time to learn math now.
    Question: Thinking preventatively, should I put a garlic clove in my bag, wrapped, for my protection? Would it?
    Answer: Deal with the present, who walks beside you.
    I ran my mind over Bettawong's eating establishments with a new criticality. Although they were almost the main business on the street, I could not think of a single one that wouldn't smell of garlic—from Rigamoto FX,  all the way to the old Chinese take-away frequented by pensioners and public housing types,  to ... crikey. The only place I could think of that maybe wouldn't have garlic was Nippon, across the street from the Higher Light, but it was always closed.
    'I could use something to eat,' he mumbled beside me. 'I haven't eaten since morning.'
    I glanced at him and tripped on a crack. His walk was almost sprightly, the tree-frog sheen gone. We were by now at the edge of Bettawong, in front of The Last, an ex-cafe that was between tenants. It inspired me.
    'What you need is a restorative coffee and cake,' I said. 'But this one's expensive. Do you have money?'
    I dug into my bag and began to fumble things around.
    He put his hand on mine. 'I have.'
    I nodded, being in the middle of a gulp of salivation.
    Three minutes later, we were sitting at a table for two in The Troppo.

    ~

    The Troppo's parties—tremendously dear (like everything at the Troppo)—with Chinese finger pulls and magic stone rings, and rattles—parties only for adults—Troppo's was not McDonald's—were what made The Troppo. And I'd heard that if you came just for coffee and cake and paid only a dollar extra, you'd get a little paper parasol stuck jauntily in your slice of cake.
    I hoped Brett would shout me for the parasol, too.
    We were lucky there was an empty table. It was almost ten o'clock. Come ten thirty, every table would be taken and no one would leave until kick-out time at half-past midnight. Brett looked introspectively quiet, which suited me down to the ground. He was hardly chit-chat capable.
    I was blissfully daydreaming when he startled me by asking when someone would come and take our order. I checked my watch. We'd been here only twenty minutes.
    'I don't know,' I answered, a tad annoyed, but I looked around to see who was working tonight. A girl with harlequin glasses that she was taking off and fondling, and putting on again. Did they have prescription lenses or plain glass? I watched for a while, deciding 'plain glass'. She was standing by the cash register. I thought of trying to attract her attention, but that seemed so American .
    She'd come. They all did eventually.

    ~

    A flicker of flame caught my eye, and I turned my head.
    Brett was playing with himself. He had one elbow resting on the table, his arm raised so that his hand was in front of his face. His hand was clenched with his thumb up, and it was flaming like a candle-wick.
    Before I could even ... anything , he blew it out.
    Then he stuck his thumb underneath his fisted fingers again, and flicked it out Zippo-lighter style. It lit instantly. He quenched it, and lit again. Then he repeated the performance. And repeated it yet again.
    'Stop that,' I whispered. 'What are you trying to do?'
    'Get some—'
    I deliberately turned my back to him, distancing myself in the eyes of everyone in the place. I heard snatches of conversation—'like him trés much ', 'she can't smell the ferret, but the whole bloody flat stinks of its fucking pee', 'those little red peppercorns'. And by the cash register, those harlequin glasses were being taken off and put back on again. I smiled to myself, feeling a surge of national pride. Brett was looking weird amongst a typically tolerant group of Australians, which meant that he was playing to a totally inattentive house.
    A roar at my back got all our attention. Brett's thumb now threw up a bonfire reaching almost to the ceiling.
    That finally got a