White and two sugars

The strong westerly had forced the dogs from the streets to lie on laundry tiles and lick moisture from shower floors. Inside the old Commodore the heat was dizzying and Mr Jones’ hair stuck to his forehead in strings. I didn’t know his first name. He would just turn up sometimes.
You’ll like this family.
His eyes darted from the road to the rear view mirror to see my reaction. They’re real nice.

They looked nice enough. She wore a baggy shirt in an attempt to conceal her pendulous breasts, and he stood there, tall and dignified.
There’s lots of neighbourhood kids for you to play with, Mr Jones said, shifting in his ill fitting suit. And the school is just round the corner.
The house is square and red, a wooden number nailed next to the door like a badge. Twenty four. Even.
Well there’s no use standing there like a stunned mullet. Go and get your stuff’n take it inside. A smile snaked across his damp face.
Your room’s up the stairs, first on the right dear, says the woman. I think he’d said her name was June.
The room smelled of stale cardboard and mouse shit. It was bare, but for a desk and a bed, the sheets tucked in tight as a straitjacket. The window looked out onto the empty street. A lone maggie balanced on a telegraph wire which zig-zagged up the street. The breeze felt like a blow dryer on my face. Bushfire weather, I thought.
Wan a cuppa, Mate? The deep voice travelled up through the tired floor boards.
The springs yelped as I dropped my bag on the bed and plodded downstairs.
The kitchen floor was lino and the wallpaper blossomed pink and red.
White or black? the old man barked, his eyes taking in the full weight of me for the first time.
Sorry?
Ya tea
Oh, white thanks. Two sugars.