The Summer when I was sixteen, my cousin and I wore bright pink lipstick everywhere; pink the colour of Hubba Bubba bubble gum and Barbie Dream Cars and young girl's underpants.
We stayed with our Nan at the beach and she took it as a sign we were up to no good. We swam and baked and ate red icepoles then carefully reapplied. We sat under the bridge and smoked Alpine cigarettes - fushia smears on white filters crushed into the ground.
That Summer we were on the brink of something; we didn't know what. Life was just around the corner and we would grow up to drive blue Escort vans and learn to surf. One day we would move to Sydney and marry Mel Gibson, or maybe just see him or touch him. Years later, he came to our home town to buy cattle, but we were no longer young girls in pink lipstick and he was no longer the Road Warrior and we didn't care any more.
The sun warmed our skin and would hardly move for laziness. The reflections on the water sparkled like our futures laid out before us.
The Summer when I was sixteen, I wore bright pink lipstick; pink the colour of hope and foolishness and optimism. The colour you wear only once in your life.