.jpg)
Sport 31: Spring 2003
i
i
Portia says faces can be sorted into three groups—horses, birds or buns. Or a combination. She says her latest, Hamish, is a horse. His breath smells like freshly cut grass. He chews his food with a contemplative jaw action.
It's also true, confides Portia, sipping her Stealth Mule, that Hamish is a stallion in bed.
Her friend, Trina, leans forward over her Sea Breeze, listening.
Trina is a bun. Her face is a muffin dusted with freckles. Her eyes are light brown sultanas.
After sex, Portia says, Hamish sucks air into his big nostrils and blows it out on my neck. Want to hear my whinny? I spent weeks perfecting it.
Trina looks at Portia's face. Her face is thin, with high cheekbones and a small pointed nose. Her bright eyes dart around the bar, under a thick fringe of streaked blonde hair. She is wearing a flimsy skirt of lime green and pink scarves. Portia is a fashion designer.
You're a bird, says Trina. You're a crazed, tropical parrot.
Portia shrieks with delight. Faces swivel towards them. Bun-birds, horse-buns and bird-horses. The barman clatters his cocktail shaker like a maraca.
How astute! says Portia. There's a sharp mind behind that sweet face. What group does Mark belong to? Trina conjures up Mark's face. His jaw is square. His face has as much expression as a bank deposit box. Mark is a stockbroker.
I've thought of another group, says Trina.