The Milo Tin.

​Part I: Bus Route 27E

​Soren was late. Shoving a hand into his pocket, he pulled out a square handkerchief to wipe his brow. His brain absolutely refused to stop replaying the rotten footage of his morning: that gate swinging closed in slow motion, the finality of that click. He tried to distract himself by putting on his headphones, but he continued to ruminate, slipping right back to that sudden breeze from the backyard which had come out of nowhere.

​Click!

​The bitter sound echoed in his ears, piercing right through the classical strings. He turned the volume up. You know, his brain persisted, it was a new gate—

​He stared blankly ahead, slightly bending his knees as if to bear the heavy weight of his own frustration.

​The soundtrack changed, but the thoughts kept looping. Who would have thought that as he’d dashed forward, he’d be just a second too late? In his mind's eye, he could still see the gate walling him out. Click! Yep, that’s right—locked out on the porch in his pyjamas and forced to scale the fence on a ladder borrowed from his neighbour.

​A sudden BEEP of a car horn snapped Soren back to the street. He looked up. There, idling at the red lights, was Route 27E—a later bus route that wound slowly through the older suburbs with its small roads and tight corners. He sighed desperately. No coffee, no pleasant stroll today.

​He dropped his headphones into his bag, but as he did, his mind faltered backward yet again. That old wooden gate had been falling apart; it had to be pushed, shoved, and dragged through the dirt. But the new one—oh, so sweet—allowed the wheelie bin to roll forward smoothly in a beautiful, straight line. As the bus halted in front of him, rocking on its suspension, it brought him back to his senses. He concluded: My bad. Next time, I'll stick a brick at its base and make it stay open!

​He stepped aboard and tapped his fare. As he edged into the crowd, his mind returned to the same trap. He was back to seeing those soft cotton pyjamas, recalling his hand brushing over the pink and grey pattern of sprawling sloths—remembering how he had hand-stitched a patch in their seat, his nose still catching the faint, lingering scent of lavender—and then Wayne’s ugly face surfaced. Yuk, he thought.

​There was only one spare seat left, just past the middle exit. Soren weaved down the aisle of standing passengers. He stopped and grabbed onto the overhead strap as the bus changed lanes, swinging into an adjacent street. Clearing his throat, he addressed the young lady pleasantly. "Is it okay for me to sit?"

​Without even lifting her eyes from her book, she remained perfectly still. Her bulky calico bag was slung over part of his seat. A little taken aback, he sort of got it; she must be completely engrossed. He cast his eyes over her again as her head tilted deeper into the pages. He was beginning to judge her as rude, assuming that was probably why the seat was vacant in the first place. Strightening his spine, he took advantage of his height and projected his authority.

​Then it happened. His sciatica twanged and immediately throbbed. He tried to soothe the pain with his free hand, but it wasn't going away anytime soon; he needed to sit down, with or without her consent. He squeezed into the space, exhaled noisily, and perched forward on the curved edge of the seat.

​He was incredibly uncomfortable. His knees were pinned tight together, his feet stuck out into the aisle, and a book corner dug into his aching hip. What could he do? He peeped at her.

​She was staring straight out the dark window now, her face turned away from him, just blankly watching the shops roll by. To Soren, she looked entirely detached, yet something about her defensive posture felt entirely deliberate; she subtly angled her shoulder away, her body curling tighter into itself. It was odd. It was almost as if she had eyes in the back of her head. Soren disliked comparing her to a "dead little spider", but he did as she retreated back into her reading.

​Then, the bus hit a massive bump.

​"Oof!" Soren exclaimed, grabbing the seat in front of him and stretching his aching leg underneath it. "Um, sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you could move your bag a little?"

​She gave a tight-lipped smile and tugged the bag onto her lap.

​The journey dragged on. Soren was tempted. What was she reading? A baby cried. The bus turned. His curiosity got the better of him. He knew he might get bitten for looking, but he couldn't help it. He sheepishly cast an eye over the ragged book cover and read: John le Carré. The Little Drummer Girl.

​Immediately, her head snapped to watch his reflection in the glass. Her chin rose like a school principal's, her expression hardening behind her black-rimmed glasses. Deliberately holding the book further away from herself and screwing up her nose, she swung the page over coldly with her pointer finger. Soren had had enough of the silent hostility. For the sake of his own peace, he hoisted himself up and stood in the aisle.

​Two minutes later, she pushed the "next stop" button. Buzz!

​With a smirk, she locked eyes with him. "Do you mind?"

​Soren stepped aside. As she brushed past, she muttered a sharp, cursing "Weird!" under her breath—just loud enough for him to hear.

​Part II: The Dream

​It was a dark, hollow, cold sound. Soren was standing somewhere; he covered his ears. Slowly, water swelled heavily on the edge of the tap, weighted like a struggling butterfly encased in its chrysalis. Letting go, it fell, hitting a sharp pitch when it smashed into the ceramic sink. Drip! Then faster—drip, drip, drip, drip—running into a deafening chime that circled down to fracture in the drain.

​Soren stirred just enough that when his eyelids flickered, he realized: I'm dreaming.

​But where was he? He reached out around himself, feeling for something. He forced his eyes open. He could see a faint patch of blue. He tried to focus. The blue hue strengthened, then distorted and rippled out. It was similar to the reflection of moonlight on the ocean before solidifying into a small window—like a sliding window in a bathroom.

​Then came a tidal wave, crashing and booming to become a toilet flush. A choked cough gave a muffled echo through his fingers, followed by a sudden, blinding explosion of light. The shock threw him backward into the hallway, the glare blurring into a bright aureole.

​Oh, for heaven’s sake, he thought, what! Am I seeing an angel now?

​He strained. No, it was a female figure walking closer.

​She looked familiar. And then it dawned on him—that girl from the bus! Her unforgettable red locks were tangled over her shoulders this time. Washing her hands and throwing water on her face, she leaned against the sink. She must have vomited, he thought. Her nose shone raw. She sneezed—Ah-choo! Ahhh-chooo! Ah-Ah-chooo!—until her fixed, deep green eyes watered and dark mascara pooled around her eyelids.

​Captivated but guarded, her green eyes held him. He thought, so beautiful.

​Soren sleep-talked as he rolled over, "Wunderschöne Smaragde, wirklich. Aber so wie du starrst, fehlt dir eigentlich nur noch die gespaltene Zunge." (Beautiful emeralds, truly—but with a stare that cold, the only thing she was missing was a forked tongue.)

​She stopped fumbling for a tissue in her dressing gown pocket. Locking eyes with him, she blew her nose and mumbled, "I'll have to go to the chemist tomorrow," before walking right through him.

​He felt himself pull and then tear open, as if hit by a sudden, crushing void—an ache that recognized him, yet he didn't know what it was.

​Part III: A Normal Day

​Soren woke with a gasp. Rubbing the sleep from his face, he checked his phone—7:43. He exhaled a heavy breath and dropped it back onto the mattress.

​While waiting for the kettle to boil, a fragment of the dream floated to the surface: a flash of red hair, a woman blowing her nose. The vague image vanished, leaving behind a strange, urgent impulse. He opened the cupboard above the stove. Empty. Just in case, best get some Lemon Myrtle tea, he thought.

​"We actually have a winter special today," the shop assistant said, scanning his box of herbal tea. Soren offered a tight-lipped smile. She persisted, "Buy one, and get fifty percent off the second."

​Soren hesitated. A good bargain, he might as well take a box to work. "Sure, thank you."

​He stuffed the first box into his bag, but the second wouldn't fit. Still struggling with the zip, he left the shop and veered left. Suddenly, a shadow rushed out of the chemist next door.

​Bang!

​They slammed into each other. Her brown paper bag slipped from her grip, hitting the ground, while his extra tea box flew from his hand and skidded towards her bag.

​Soren stumbled back, his eyes widening. Standing in front of him, clutching that ghastly pale, carroty coat and heavy calico bag, was that girl from the bus.

​Her eyes flared with rage. "Are you stalking me?"

​The accusation jarred him. He fumbled for words then said no, but the weak defense only seemed to incriminate him more. Dazed, he knelt to gather his tea, her paper bag, and a few of her scattered coins. When he handed them back, she snarled.

​Doe-eyed, Soren absently shoved the tea toward her. "It's very good for colds."

​Before she could answer, he turned and wandered off.

​Part IV: The Discovery

​Astrid loved the old-world weight of the Old Flour Mill. Dim lightbulbs cast a thin glow over the checkerboard floor as she passed deep Victorian mirrors and glass-fronted shops. At the end of the hallway, a high, ornate baroque chair upholstered in red velvet seemed to judge everyone who walked by. Above it, a plaque read: Queen Victoria sat and adjusted her shoe on this during her very secret visit to Queen’s Park, circa 1870.

​Astrid always straightened her shoulders with pride here; her ancestor had attended to the Queen during that visit. Her grandmother used to laugh and say, "Queen Victoria skipped Brisbane but not us!"

​Passing the chair left everyone entering The Checkmate coffee shop feeling a bit like royalty. Astrid muzzied into the familiar industrial clash of painted galvanized iron, bare support beams with exposed pipes, and joined the queue. The moment Soren entered the shop, that familiar red hair swung, he gasped.

​"Oh my God, not again!" he groaned, turning on his heel to flee.

​Hearing that voice again, Astrid looked over her shoulder. For the first time, her face softened into a smile. "I know, it’s just a coincidence. Honestly, I’m surprised we haven’t bumped into each other sooner."

​Soren exhaled a massive sigh of relief. She was polite.

​"And thank you for that tea," Astrid added. "It helped straight away—"

​"Next, please!" the barista called out.

​Astrid stepped forward. "I’d like a warm Milo in a mug, please. No sugar."

​Soren blinked in surprise. "That’s unusual. Another person who actually orders morning Milo from a coffee shop."

​The barista huffed, hunting under the far bench until he unearthed a tin. Spotting the sticky rim and the slightly askew lid, Astrid leaned over the counter. "No, wait. Can I see that?"

​The barista glared at her, then at the piling customers, before sliding the tin to the edge of the counter. "Sorry, could you step aside?"

​Soren moved up as Astrid wedged her fingers under the lid and pried it off. His voice came out entirely too loud. "Oh, well done!"

​He peered inside at the petrified, hardened powder. "Can I?" He took the tin and gave it a shake. "Nah, solid as a brick."

​Astrid snapped into action, her voice matching his volume. "Can someone get me a knife?" She stabbed at the crust, but had no luck.

​Soren grabbed a used mug from a nearby tray. "Here, use the base of this. Bang it on the end of the knife handle."

​Astrid violently shook her head. "No! NO! NO!" Slumping over the counter, she groaned, "Wayne used to do that! It won't work."

​Soren's eyebrow shot up. "Wayne?"

​"Yes, Wayne.” She paused. “What do you mean, Wayne?"

​Soren pursed his lips, planting a hand on his hip. "Wayne walked out on me in February?"

​Astrid knitted her eyebrows, her lips mirroring his. "Oh, that Wayne! Yes... Wayne who moved in with me in March?"

​Soren stared, the pieces falling into place. "And?"

​"The Milo wrecker left two weeks ago," Astrid said wryly.

​He enquired, "The day I saw you on the bus?"

​Astrid nodded.

​The River City radio blared from the shop's speakers:

​DUX: "Welcome back to the breakfast show! It is Dux and Millsy right here with you."

​MILLSY: "That’s right, and today we are opening up the phones. We want to know: what is the absolute one thing that drives you up the wall? What frustrates you the most?"

​The barista held his mobile and pointed at it. “Two meals on the house if you do it?"

​Part V: The Live Broadcast

​[SOUND EFFECT: Upbeat, punchy jingle fades down]

​DUX: "We’ve got two people, Soren..." (Pause) "...and Astrid on the line right now."

​[Customers whistle and cheer]

MILLSY: "Welcome and Good morning guys. So, tell us, what is absolutely doing both your heads in?"

ASTRID (via phone): "It’s the Milo tin. They haven't put the lid back on properly."

MILLSY: "Whoa, oh my God! Are you serious? How horrible is that? The Milo tin lid not on properly?!"

ASTRID: "Yes! It's all sticky around the rim!"

DUX: (Laughs) "Oh that is a capital offense in Australia! Soren, what do you have to say for yourself?"

SOREN (via phone): "It's worse inside. A petrified rock."

MILLSY: "Oh, yuk! My son does that. It gets so chunky you have to jam a knife into it!"

ASTRID: "That's exactly what I'm doing right now!"

MILLSY: "Ha-ha, yes! Have you managed to chip any off, Astrid?"

SOREN: "No, it's just coming out in chunks."

DUX: "Chunks?!"

MILLSY: "Chunks? Like undissolved floaters on top of warm milk?"

ASTRID: "That is exactly what's happening."

DUX: "Oh, no!"

MILLSY: "Australia's worst nightmare is happening as we speak. Milo cubes!"

​...

​DUX: "Oh my God, listeners, did you hear that? Gross! Milo cubes in milk!"

​MILLSY: "Alright guys, it’s funny, but I was wondering—"

​DUX: "Watch out, Soren and Astrid, she's changin' the subject! Gonna take you both down a deep rabbit hole!"

​MILLSY: "Ha-ha, Dux, you're stealing my thunder!"

​DUX: "Stop rolling your eyes at me Millsy."

​MILLSY: “Sooo, both Soren and Astrid hate hardened Milo. Do they also both hate the toilet roll being hung the wrong way?"

​DUX: "Wait, what way is the wrong way?"

​MILLSY: "It's when you put it on the bracket and it rolls over from the front."

​DUX: "No, no, the toilet roll should absolutely be pulled from the underside. Look, I’ll ask another man's opinion. What do you think, Soren?"

​SOREN: "It rolls better from the underside."

​MILLSY: "Oh my God, Dux, you wouldn't last five minutes in our house!"

​DUX: "You're quiet there, Astrid. What's your take? Upper or underside?"

​ASTRID: "Underside."

​[DUX AND MILLSY LAUGH MADLY]

​MILLSY: "Unbelievable! I'm outnumbered, ha-ha. Alright, what about coat hangers, guys?"

​DUX: "All facing the same way."

​SOREN & ASTRID: "Yeah."

​MILLSY: "You know what, Soren and Astrid? I think you've passed the test. We should just marry you both right now!"

​[IN THE BACKGROUND: Coffee shop customers cheer]

​DUX: "Hold on, I'll put some organ music on."

​[SOUND EFFECT: Cheesy wedding organ music plays]

​MILLSY: "Oh, that's good, Dux. Perfect."

​CUSTOMER (Yelling in the background): "She's got her veil and bouquet!"

​DUX: "What's that about your fiancée, Soren?"

​SOREN: (Laughs) "They just put a white napkin on Astrid's head and shoved a handful of dessert spoons into her hand to act like a bouquet."

​MILLSY: "Are you okay there, Astrid?"

​ASTRID: "Yes."

​DUX: "I want to be the marriage celebrant Millsy?"

​MILLSY: "Alright, go ahead."

​DUX: "Ready, Soren and Astrid?"

​SOREN & ASTRID: "Yes."

​[The coffee shop customers cheer again]

​MILLSY: "Good luck, you two!"

​DUX: “Do you, Soren, and you, Astrid, both promise to love, cherish, and be consistent with how the toilet rolls and coat hangers are placed, and always remember to put the Milo tin lid back on properly?"

​SOREN & ASTRID: "Yes."

​[The coffee shop customers erupt into cheers]

​DUX: "I now pronounce you man and wife. Soren, you must kiss the bride!"

​Soren leaned towards Astrid. Her eyes snapped open. "Oh, my eyes ARE emerald," she asserted. "And I DO have a forked tongue!"

​Soren staggered back, stunned. How could she know that dream?

​DUX: "What's happening?"

​Silence.

​MILLSY: "They're not kissing?"

​DUX: "Oh, for God's sake, kiss the bride, Soren!"

​[The café crowd erupted, clapping and chanting: "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"]

A fierce, fragile anger flared in Astrid's eyes. "Ich habe viel zu lange auf dich gewartet," she whispered with a bitter bite as she became the queen. (I have waited too long for you.)

​He leaned away from the radio's noise, pressing his lips close to draw in her sharp, exhaling breath. Then pulling back just a fraction, he breathed out and murmured, "Ich bin hier," (I am here) .

​Inhaling his words, she whispered against his lips, "Ich spüre dich." Then, her eyes finally fluttered closed. (I feel you)

​Soren traced the line of her cheekbone he felt the tense struggle in her face—the quiet panic of someone afraid to fall in love again. He whispered against her skin, "Kleine Tode." (Little deaths.)