Nico arrived at the Victoria University pool, high on the hill overlooking the parched slope of Footscray Park, the Maribyrnong syrup slow in the late afternoon. He donned his budgie smugglers and hacked through the first ten laps before he fell into a rhythm. It felt good to have a body, to throw it through time and space, purposeful, porpoise-like.

My phone buzzed and I rolled over to pick it up from its little docking station on the bedside table. The text message read, ‘Weak move, Nasra.’ It was my boss. I was trying to get fired, but Bruno was determined to drag things out for as long as possible. I had sent him a message last night telling him that I wouldn’t be coming into work this morning and that I didn’t feel like finding someone to cover my shift.

The sign on the freeway says we wish you every happiness together but they knew better than that red neon. ‘I can feel your pulse.’ B reads all signs, speed limits, church boards, distance till destination. Mari has her feet on the dash, one hand tucked into the hem of her skirt. The other holds higher on his thigh, femoral pulse.