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— damn it, gettin’ low, how I haterunning out of smokes. It’s like running out of life, of chances you no longer have, ’cos you consumed them, blew them, literally smoked them away. I still get a buzz using the car lighter, of pushing it in and how quickly it pops out, all glowing at the end. Stick the smoke end up to it, inside the protective sleeve so it don’t burn its surrounds, feels like a minor miracle, of technology working in with satisfying psychology, namely my addiction. My emotional need. My personal weakness.
    Ah, that’s better. What would I do without smokes? (But not the other shit, deary. You could do without the other shit.)
    Damn sheep in the middle of the friggin’ highway. How long’s this gonna take? There must be thousands of the things. (Oh, what’s your hurry, Sharns? You got important
matters
to tend to? The hell you have.)
    Two guys on horses, look fit and strong but dull. I think I prefer a bit of deadly menace in a man’s posture. A touch of hatred in his eyes, which don’t need to reason, offer no explanation, it just is. And it’ll become yours — as in physical hurting — if you’re not very very careful. But somehow a part of me is drawn to men who treat me bad. And they’re never good lovers, too damn selfish, too into ’emselves.
    These shepherd guys, they’re mellow, at peace with ’emselves. Wouldn’t fancy one of them as a husband, though, gimme a crazy bastard or a busy boss farmer satisfied with his full life and a fatter cheque-book. Either or, but prefer the or. Not some bachelor dude lives up in the hills, pulling himself off and not trying to get what he ain’t got, being all men’s desire: woman. (As if you try to find a decent man, Sharn-haha-neeta.)
    Sometimes a shepherd comes into town and drinks at our pub, bores even us go-nowhere galoots and silly gals and life-made sluts stupid with his tales of effin’ sheep and more sheep, of rain and horse treks on dangerous terrain, spooky mists and stars at night, moon so close you can touch it, breezes howling and whispering music up in them hills. As if any of us is ever gonna go out and experience any of this for ourselves. And what do they do for sex when any gal in our world knows men need it all the time?
    Dogs keep the sheep in control. Look how they crouch and sneak up, stop, change direction at a whistled command from one of the shepherds. Clever things, woof-woof-woof, man, they’re keen. Just here to do the job, no effin’ around, no skiving off or mouthing off on the next bigtime criminal job or scam off of social welfare. No standing there, eyes averted (from responsibility) no one can make a decision, too effin’ childish and irresponsible,  are the types I know. Shit, even these sheep dogs act more decisively than the company I keep.
    Like life is always in front of you, it’s a job has to be done. As in handling it, baby. Like getting over it, putting whatever crap’s happened behind you. Just do the job, Sharns … (The job?) Yes, the job. Yeah, well, soon. Whenever. Whatever. My, it’s got dark again all of a sudden. And there’s voice again, telling me I’m a worthless piece a crap.
    Have to pull over, stop the engine, stop breathing nearly, close my eyes and hope I open them to some light. Takes three attempts before I get the sun back. But with the shadow over it. (Shadow, always shadow.)
    They’re far behind, faded fast in the rear vision the yapping, working dogs, the unhurried men on slow horses knowing their own job at hand, which a woman can presume — oh yes, Sharneeta Hurrey, fancy lady, one can presume — is to get the sheep from one paddock to another, unless it’s to the meat works, to all those big brute brown Maori men waiting with sharpened knives and easy smiles and hardened muscles from handling live to dead carcasses all the day long, laughing and