Horn Keeps the Grin

The mirror offered Horn a perfectly respectable face. He regarded it with suspicion.

Bright morning light lay across his shoulder. Outside, the day was getting on with itself. He ought to follow its example.

Instead, he lifted one eyebrow and pulled the corner of his mouth sideways.

Too much. He looked like he’d sold somebody a surfboard with no fins and called it an opportunity.

He tried again. Less teeth. More insolence.

There it was: a grin with absolutely no intention of explaining itself.

Horn held it for three seconds before a laugh broke through. The reflection laughed too, which somehow made the whole business worse. He braced a hand against the wall and let it happen.

Then he straightened his shirt. The sensible face began returning, ready for duty.

Oh, give it a rest.

At the open door he remembered the crooked grin—not the exact arrangement, just the small, ridiculous freedom of it. His mouth found its way back.

He went out wearing that.

A small salute to Australian cinema’s overlooked larrikin girl: irreverence needn’t fit the official portrait.