Capri's Son

The miniature marsupial bounced out of frame before the phone’s camera could capture the twin-toothed grin next to David’s giant head.

“Crikey!” David said, making the worst attempt at an Aussie accent. Louise squeezed his shoulder—code for please stop embarrassing me in public.

He was determined to acquire the rarest and most prized souvenir: the quokka selfie.

Other tourists snapped their photos and went about their holiday, but not David. His photo had to include Capri, the furriest, fattest-cheeked quokka with cookie-shaped ears he wanted to nibble. Capri, whose joey was old enough to poke its head out of her pouch. David called it a “two-for-one selfie.”

“Maybe the universe is telling you this isn’t going to happen. You’ve been stalking her like paparazzi for days.” Louise's voice rose an octave with each word.

They had been at this crossroads before on vacation—David was on a quest, and Louise prayed for patience.

“Louise, you could be more supportive here.”

“Not supportive?” Her eye twitched. “I flew eight thousand miles, took three planes and one ferry to Rottenest Island—"

“Rottnest,” David corrected.

“Whatever. I’ve endured jet lag, bloodsucking sandflies, and traveller’s diarrhea the consistency of Gammy’s gravy, all so you could get a selfie with an animal that abandons its babies as an escape tactic. I want to RELAX!”

“But Louise—”

“Silence, husband! The universe has spoken.” Her yelling and flailing arm gestures spooked Capri, and the quokka yeeted her son into the air and hopped away.

David caught the joey before it hit the ground.

Louise, her mouth agape, stared on as David cradled Capri’s son with tenderness, as if he’d birthed the pint-sized fluffball himself.

“No worries, mate. Davy’ll look after ya.”

Louise pressed a hand to her forehead. “Sweetie, you can’t keep—”

“Silence, wife! The universe has spoken.”