Tea Tree Music.

Here in the mall, we're all half off our best. Husbands, defeated and overspent, slouch angrily, discount sneering, muzak despaired. And so it was at the Tea Tree too. Acres of black tar, sunsoftened and acrid, cached our Adidas footprints and preserved tyre tracks. Bordered by a firewall of majestic gums, all paper-barked and fragrant, their leaves shimmied to the eternal roar of 1,000 ton air conditioners. Inside, we refrigerated masses hustled, escalated and bagged. From the food court I would spy you, sorting albums, fake smiling, pretending to care. Dolled up, gorgeous by the Bowie rack, you were all business, until you weren't. When we finally kissed, you were my best birthday present.