The Cave of My Heart

At the edge of my backyard, there is a cave. It took me a long time to find it. And longer to brave the precipitous path that leads to it. It is obscured by an outcrop of aloe vera, and a tall metal fence that our landlord erected to keep safe from adventurous tenants. But if one is particularly curious, the cave’s existence is hinted at by a few well-disguised steps made of stone and covered in dirt, overgrown by lantana roots.

I live on cliffs that are misty in the mornings. When the sea spray salts their outline they seem a part of some Irish isle. They are out of place here above the blue and yellow shades of Bondi. Anywhere else in the world they would be cut into, trekked, sailboats docked in their welcoming crescents, sunbathers draped over the rocks. The cliff tops would be joined by paths paved into their curves, broken up by mini beaches covered in striped towels and wooden huts. Crumbling homesteads balanced upon their precipices. Perching restaurants with unparalleled views, serving €50 plates of linguine marinara. But here the cliffs are untamed, baking in Australian heat, indifferent to the millionaires who have built their minimalistic mansions upon them.

The cliffs were obscured through most of autumn. The ocean fog climbed up their sides, spilling soft smoke into my backyard like an upside-down chimney. The fog was so white you couldn’t see the horizon. The sky, the ocean, and the vanilla sun formed one foaming entity.

I’d moved into the house with my husband and our recently acquired cattle dog. I wanted space and quiet, a big backyard and freedom from the noise of voices and high heels that pierced my inner city apartment ceiling every night. I found our new home at a viewing I attended alone in an area I’d never been to. I’d stood at the edge of the yard, pondered the sixty metre drop to the ocean, and claimed ownership over my new ledge of the world. We moved in at the height of summer, sweating our way through the unpacking of boxes until all of my husband’s instruments had found their place and I had curated our trinkets into shrines. We bought two sun loungers and melted into our surroundings.

It was toward the end of February when the humidity lifted. On a morning around Valentine’s Day, I noticed the thickness in the air separating. My husband started touring with his band and his travel schedule was frantic. I saw him, on average, once a month. Autumn came early, like most things that season. When you don’t see your lover often, the excitement comes in short lived gasps.

I had never minded being alone. I’d inherited independence partly from my mother, who was fiercely selfish, and by watching Sex and The City from an early age. I’d been acting like a 35-year-old single Manhattanite since I was 19. By adulthood, I was so used to my independence that any serious relationship held an element of intrusion. But I’d recently become accustomed to my partner’s presence and now it was hard to sleep without him. I’d finally fall asleep in the early hours and my dog would wake me up for a piss. We’d pad outside together and stand in the yard, overlooking the 180-degree view of the ocean, accompanied by the sound of his night-time wee. I’d stand at the edge and look out over the edge of the country. My husband was on the other side of it somewhere—Los Angeles…or San Francisco, either setting up for a show or travelling between gigs.

One night, it felt particularly dark. The grass between myself and the cliff was clear and in focus, its colour the only thing muted by the moonlight. But beyond the patch of grass—nothing. My yard dropped into the sound of waves. I turned around looking for a sign of presence. Someone else’s existence. The lighthouse flashed, sweeping its light across the lawn like a cat dismissing an offering it’s not in the mood for. I felt the palm tree moving next to me and heard my dog’s paws press into the grass. I followed him into the safety of my home with its walls and golden light.

Winter was silver. Walking my silver dog along silver cliffs overlooking the silver ocean and thinking about silver linings.

My husband was gone for a long stretch of time. I fell into the peace that comes from lack of responsibility. My days developed an easy flow of domestic housekeeping, farmers markets, yoga classes and things people do when they don’t have to do anything else. I fell into the comfort of singledom patterns; eating hummus for dinner and watching reruns of 90210 in front of the fireplace. I relished having no-one to consider, no-one to compromise my plans for; my carefully considered plans of drinking cups of tea and taking long walks along the beach.

In midwinter I ran into someone I half-knew. Shane1 was the charismatic girlfriend of a model my husband knew. She was going through a bad breakup with said model. When I say bad, I mean she’d recently locked herself in her car with the exhaust running. I made space for her in between my cups of tea. Sometimes she’d join me for a walk along the beach or call me at night to discuss a piece of writing she was working on.

One morning Shane drove from one side of the city to mine, for a cup of coffee she only had ten minutes for. After this effort, I began to present my time more generously and our dates became more indulgent. Over a few weeks I became Shane’s sidekick; seated next to her at gay bars, dancing in clubs all night, going out for a Monday drink that would turn into three bottles of red wine and a bucket of fried chicken.

I stumbled home from one of our nights at 3am and towards the end of winter. I was covered in glitter and the straps of my heels were dangling from my wrist. The full moon lit up the ocean. Even though it was the middle of the night I could make out the white of the waves foaming below. Shane had tried to call me the night she’d locked herself in her car. It was a few months ago and I hadn’t answered. I’d barely known her at the time and I was overseas, so I’d missed the call. Why had she called me, out of everyone? Was she just going through everyone in her phone? Or had she thought of me specifically?

I generally avoid submerging myself in the ocean. I do not like the cold. But that night, the ocean didn’t look cold or impenetrable. Looking out at the endless drop, I had never felt freer.

Spring bounced between two lengths of sleeves. The wind pulled the top layer of sea into sections; some soft, some rough, like two sides of a piece of sandpaper. In the rough, the waves reflected the sun vibrantly, catching the sun and sparkling.

Months earlier, I had stood over a topless Shane with a friend’s loaded film camera and taken her portrait. We were at the beach for her birthday and she was in her element; lying under an umbrella, Negroni in hand, her face covered by her girlfriend’s sunhat. The image came out in black and white. The photo exists now on somebody’s else’s Dropbox, my picture of Shane’s heart circulating a random iCloud.

My husband’s tour came closer to home. I’d just gotten comfortable with the quiet of my own company and in he stormed, trailing dirty laundry, male sweat and huge metal guitar amplifiers that dominated my lounge room. He was always coming and going. Each week, I’d have just enough time to assimilate to his company, and then he’d be off again, taking the amplifiers with him and leaving me wondering what I had all that space in my lounge room for anyway.

One weekend, in between shows, my husband had his band over for a BBQ. After a few beers and rounds of bocce, their curiosity got the better of them and they started climbing the fence. They noticed the imprinted grass under the aloe vera and some roots that looked like footholds. One by one, I saw their legs straddle the metal and disappear over the ledge. I waited on the grass, too afraid to join them and worried about liability. My dog stood beside me, both of our ears cocked for sounds of danger. I could hear their exclamations of discovery. They returned up the hill, one head at a time, laughing, joking, adrenaline coursing through them. “There’s just a bit of a decline. If you’re careful, it’s not that dangerous,” my husband said.

Regardless of my husband’s comings and goings, I managed to see Shane most days: afternoon catch ups, dinners with friends, house parties we were both invited to. One night she ordered for me at a restaurant and placed her hand on my back as we walked. It became drunken and flirtatious and I travelled home confused and intrigued. Then she texted me in relapsed-breakup-despair; I don’t know how to go on. I just want it to end.

Through the weekly upheavals, Shane’s grief and the changes in weather, the one thing that remained constant was the blue. The blue of the ocean, still sparkling on hot days. The blue of the clouds at twilight, arriving later now, in layers. It was a safe place to land, in the freshness of spring. My growing attraction to Shane was there, as clear as all that blue, but the season softened my concern. It sank into subtext, safely underlying our interactions.

Growing up, I had been sure of my sexuality. I’d surprised myself by falling into relationships with men. Originally, my male conquests were products of power plays that I enjoyed winning. But at some point, my attraction to them had become genuine. I hadn’t thought about my sexuality for years. It had been left somewhat unclarified on the edge of my adolescence.

I managed to talk Shane out of her grief. But after that, I couldn’t sleep. I took myself outside with a nightcap. The evening sky was navy, speckled with stars. The salt greeted me like an old friend, but the navy was new. The ocean moved in rolling, crestless waves. I imagined myself floating on their hills in big, long undulations.

The cliffs were wet for most of summer. Streaming from tropical rain. The colours were rich: wet brown, forest green, ink blue, lead grey. The sea was made up of chandelier pieces reflecting golden sunlight.

I went out with Shane to celebrate the first hot weekend. It was another night of what had become typical: tequila margaritas, dancing, and being tossed between mixed messages. We shared a late-night bowl of pasta at a restaurant open until the early hours. When I got in the cab to go home, she grabbed my hand and squeezed. As the car drove away, she drunkenly flashed me from the street. The humidity returned. There’s always respite on my cliff. Even in the middle of summer there’s a breeze. I stood on the cliff in the fresh air looking up at the stars. But three lines of cloud swept across the sky and they shadowed everything into shades of grey. As I walked back inside, she sent me a text:

Am I the Shane2 of your dreams? She asked.

Maybe, I replied.

Later, I sent a follow up; Yes.

She did not write back.

My husband’s tour ended in the middle of summer and around my birthday. He threw a party to celebrate both. The house was full, the backyard crowded with people. Clouded by champagne, I oscillated between the two people I loved. I took another film photo that night of Shane cheers-ing the camera with a glass. In it, she is winking. At me or the camera, I don’t know. I knew as she left that our subtext was over. She didn’t want the responsibility of my feelings. She could barely rely on her own.

The party wound down and I was unable to sleep. My husband was in my bed again and I’d gotten used to having my own space. I stood out on the cliff and looked down at the waves. They roared against the summer heat. They no longer looked welcoming. I wondered how Shane had felt when she’d called me all those months ago, from the inside of a car filling with exhaust. Whether she’d felt like she was suffocating, or dreadfully alone. I curled my hands around the metal fence and pulled myself over to the other side. I stood on the outcrop, holding on to the aloe plant that jutted out high above the ocean. I’d never asked her why she’d called me. Or even if she remembered doing so. Crouching, I made my way forward, holding onto the roots covering the path. The dirt trail led down a few meters to a hollowed out space under the outcrop.

It opened into the mouth of a cave. Through the overgrown lantana, there were remnants of life; an old broken chair, the detritus of a homemade stove. Along the edge, a narrow path was pressed into the weeds—imprinted by an animal with impressive dexterity. There was a whole community down here; the ghost of someone who had used it as a refuge, and a family of foxes that must live on the cliff. There was a surprising amount of room and the decline was less sharp than I’d imagined. It would be possible to fall, but it would take effort.

I heard my dog pacing along the fence, pressing his paws against the metal, scratching to join me. I heard his soft bark above the sound of the ocean crashing underneath us. It was time to go back. I turned away from the cave’s solitude and slowly climbed back up the trail and onto the safe side of the fence. I joined my silver fox-like pet and walked us to bed. I slid in under the ocean of linens, wrapping myself in layers of sheets, the blankets folding in, under and around me. Underneath the foam of the covers everything was silent. My seal-like dog found the outline of my body and rested his silky head on my leg, curling his back into the curve of my hip like a wave.

[1] Not her real name.

[2] As in Shane McCulloch, from The L Word.