The shower tap squeaks as Ray finally turns it off. I sit, cross armed on the couch. Pippa is sprawled across the floorboards in a patch of sunlight, oblivious to the impending volcanic eruption.

Lower half wrapped in an old towel, he is gleaming and sculpted. Heart skipping a beat, I glare at him.

“Two-minute showers, I thought we agreed. I don’t want to run out of water again.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“We have a couple of days of water left at best. I hated paying last year to get the truck out.”

“You didn’t mind at the time.”

“I did mind, I do mind. I’m telling you I don’t want to fork out again.”

“Okay, whatever.”

He dresses in the same clothes as yesterday and the day before; his limited wardrobe was a charming quirk when we first met. I remember laughing when he showed up to our third date in the same outfit as the two before. That night he took me to a New Years’ bush dance where I sipped warm beer as he wrapped me in a fairy tale of simple living; away from it all, self-sufficient, eco-friendly.  Stings of lights dripped haphazardly from a gnarled gidgee tree, making his blue eyes sparkle as he spoke about the dream life he had created.

In the early months, this off-grid lifestyle was so novel. Coming here the first time I remember how amazed I was at Ray’s set-up; solar panels, water tanks, a plot for a future garden bed. And, of course, his golden retriever puppy, Pippa, with whom I fell instantly in love. I moved in, Pippa grew into her paws, and the garden bed grew weedy.

“Alright, I’m off,” he says.

“To get more junk for the pile?” I say under my breath to Pippa.

The gum trees stand solemnly side by side. The birds come and go. Crimson rosellas glow red, currawongs sing from the tree-tops, and I wonder if the gang gangs will fly past today. Pippa sniffs. She finds a good place for her morning wee, then joins me on the edge of the veranda. I hug her golden coat and watch queues of ants spanning the cracked clay. A glimpse into their lives, mostly spent beneath the surface.

I had an ant farm when I was a kid. I remember the excitement of setting it up and my impatience at the first hours of dullness, but slowly the ants revealed their engineering skills. Intricate tunnels, with bends and forks. Neat and chaotic. Ants were no longer a pesky kitchen countertop visitor, but tiny underground world builders.

“Why are you wasting your time with those bugs?” said my older sister.

“Technically, they’re not bugs,” I said.

“Okay, ant girl,” she taunted but I ignored her and sat transfixed by my hundreds of tiny pets.

My need to watch them grew insatiable. Did they know they were enclosed and did they mind? What if I added more ants?

Glass jar in hand, I found an army of ants in my backyard and scooped up as many as I could. A grin filled my face as I tipped the new ants in but something wasn’t right. These new ants were bigger than the original ones. More reddish. More aggressive. The ants started to battle each other, ripping off limbs and heads. I ran in a panic to the kitchen.

“Dad! My ants, the new ants, they’re killing each other!”

“Circle of life,” said Dad, continuing to wash the dishes.

Pippa leans into me and yawns.

“Good yawn,” I say. I imagine the circulating ant tunnels, full of ant booty, ant secrets. A whole world in a hole and I only get to glimpse the surface goers. Superficial ants.

“I better get moving.” No shower for me today. I get dressed and kiss Pippa on the head. She stands at the door and wags me goodbye as I head to work.

*

As I pull into my dirt patch car spot (away from any overhanging branches), Pippa trots her way up to the car. I scratch her head and she follows me inside. Ray is splayed across the couch, beer in hand, chatting on the phone. “She’ll do well in the mud, fingers crossed it rains,” he says, waving hello to me with his finger, but not looking in my direction.

My body feels tense from the day at work but Pippa is tap-dancing near her lead, so I change into my runners, hook her up and we’re out the door. I pass the junk pile, haphazardly wrapped in tarps. There’s a new addition beside the pile: green velvet armchair. I calculate it’s worth approximately $20, but approximately nothing if it just sits here, as I suspect it will. And negative $20 if it needs to be taken to the tip. But that’s wishful thinking; I assume this junk pile will eventually grow into its own tip. My shoulders slump. I sigh and turn towards the road.

My feet pound the bitumen and it pounds back. We reach the start of the track. I let Pippa loose and she trots along, sniffing and weeing, sniffing and weeing. I breathe in deeply, the air dry and dense with the smell of eucalyptus trees.

Something about the dryness and the angle of the sun reminds me of my trip to Uluru. Does Ray even know about that trip? Pippa chases a scent, winding on and off the path. I write a mental list of all the things I know about Ray: his family, his studies, intimate details about the month he spent in the UK, that time he got the wrong kebab order well before we met, his preferences in food, clothes, music. But what does he know about me? I realise there’s an ant colony inside me, starting to dig in my chest. My imaginary ants start to build tunnels. My heart aches.

Pippa barks. She is pointed towards the open bush, tail straight.

“Stop it!” I shout.

She stops, and stares at me, shocked at the rage in my voice. I heard it too. An unfamiliar tone. I stand tall and reclaim the space I’m occupying. My internal ant tunnels grow and branch.

Ray is in the same position as when I left, but now he’s tapping on his phone.

“I saw the chair. Why do you need another one?”

“Good resale value. You don’t get it.”

“Not if it sits around out in the elements.”

“What’s your problem, anyway?”

“I feel like you don’t listen to me.”

“Sounds like a you problem. I’m gonna have a shower.”

As soon as the tap turns on, I check the time and grit my teeth. I can’t believe he’s having another shower today. I flip my book open but my mind is too worked up to concentrate on the words. I go outside where I can’t hear the shower. Pippa follows me. I tiptoe around ants, careful not to squash them, working my way along a narrow path to my favourite vantage point, a large fallen trunk. I cross my legs and try to breathe in the fresh air as the ant tunnel inside me grows deeper and more complicated.

He stands on the porch. Wet hair, same clothes again.

“Couldn’t find you, thought you’d disappeared,” he shouts.

“Well, I guess you found me.”

He sits beside me, smelling of my body wash and shampoo. He has his own three-in-one but I guess he likes to use my stuff, without asking.

“Have I ever told you about my Uluru trip?”

The cockatoos circle above, screaming profanities.

“Geez, the cockies are loud today, must be mating season or something,” he says.

My ant tunnels grow into ant superhighways, deep, cavernous, curved, sprawling. But the feeling starts to make sense. My body welcomes the sunlight and I start to feel present for the first time in a long time. I close my eyes and see a blurry orange. It feels like freedom, like a way out.

*

I stretch as I wake up. Pippa is lying next to me. Usually, the dog’s not allowed on the bed but this morning, as soon as Ray left, Pippa jumped up and took his place. With a heavy body, I pry myself free of the sheets and lumber into the kitchen. Fresh coffee smell lingers. I flip open the lid of the stovetop coffee maker – none left. Again. He could’ve at least left a little. I make a fresh batch, all the while wishing he’d left some, wishing he’d thought about me. The brew starts to boil.

Pippa and I sit on the back step, looking at the low cloud cover overhead. The first clouds in weeks. Trees and birds, usually vibrant with dazzling sunlight, are dull and grey. Peaceful. I sip my coffee, hot and bitter. It’s strange when people dilute this perfect drink with milk or sugar. Pippa lies down and rests her head on her paws.

Below us, the real-life ants rebel against the peacefulness of everything else. The colony  vibrates with the buzzing chaos of individuals running frantically in all directions.

“Must be rain on the way,” I say.

Pippa lifts her head and stares off somewhere distant.

I watch the ants, trying to track individuals, trying to understand what they are doing. After a while it feels as if I’m watching a TV screen full of static. My head buzzes with caffeine.

From outside I am a monk in deep meditation but inside, days, weeks, months of frustration whirl. I finally hear what my inner ants have to say. I stand and become one of the frenzied ants. I grab a bag from the cupboard and scamper from one room to the next, grabbing clothes, books, pictures. Years of objects, collected within minutes. In the bathroom I fill a cardboard box with all my things and grin at the thought of Ray missing my body wash. I throw things into my car boot and backseat. I am swift, feeling lighter with each load.

Pippa stands beside the door, wagging her tail in confusion, her head flicking back and forth like a fan’s at a tennis match, watching me race from house to car and back again.

With my final bag almost full, I hesitate. My hand hovers above the dog lead. I close my eyes. Pippa is his dog. I can’t steal his dog. A lump forms in my throat.

Taking one last look inside the house, I smile at the pile of Ray’s clothes I’ll never have to deal with. Pippa is still there, beside the door. I grab her head and stare into her eyes.

“You’re such a good girl, Pippa.”

Pippa licks me on the nose and I kiss the top of her head. I should leave her here. I grab her lead and rush with her to the car. He probably won’t bother coming after her anyway; he can barely keep himself fed and brushed.

I put on my 90s compilation mix, the one Ray hates. Pippa pants in the passenger seat. As the car starts to move, the clouds break and rain pours down. In my rearview mirror the velvet chair is turning a darker shade of green. I pull onto the road and drive away. My inner ants dance in celebration.