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do. Decide everyone’s queer until it’s proven otherwise.’
    ‘You think everyone’s homosexual?’
    ‘No, but it doesn’t hurt to try. I mean, you’re here.’ BJ puts her hand on top of mine: HEY FUCKHEAD! GET SERIOUS!
    Good advice.
    ‘I’m thinking about sex all the time. I’m having dreams where I’m almost kissing girls. Last Friday I knocked a bike courier off her bike.’
    Is she trying to suppress a grin? Her smile spills into laughter.
    ‘Did you give her a lift into Bourke Street?’
    ‘How’d you know?’
    ‘I work with Justine.’
    The sugar is in long cylindrical packets and BJ’s building an Eiffel Tower with them. I’m attempting an Arc de Triomphe.
    ‘How small is this town? I saw her again during the week in the cafe across the road from my building. I think we might be friends.’
    ‘I might know you better than you think.’ BJ picks up my hand. ‘Babe, can I call you babe?’
    ‘Well, it’s better than bitch.’
    ‘You seemed to like it.’
    She’s laconic, sexy, twenty-two. I want her.
    ‘Maybe…I’m meant to be at work.’
    ‘You work weekends?’ Her keys are in her hand. Lisa Simpson is my favourite Simpson too.
    We haven’t moved. The table is small, the distance between us isn’t great but it feels like it’s closing. Her lips, eyes, the way the hair on her nape seems to crest
    like a wave. I give up trying to put down the urge I have to be with her.
    ‘I’m only saying that. I want to go back to your place. And not to help you study.’
    ‘Okay.’
    Our walk back to the car is swift.
    I have my seatbelt on first.
    Some questions asked, some questions answered.
    It was sex.
    New questions.
    What’s she wearing under her leather jacket? Will her hair be sticky, like it looks, with its ‘Don’t be Cruel’ shine? How will our skins feel pressed together?

9.
    The front door bangs shut. BJ’s phone rings. I find the bathroom. There’s a glass on the bench, I rinse it and fill it. See the shake in my hands.
    I can’t be with BJ if my husband is kicking around inside my head, shocked and hurt and angry. A couple of years ago, at a team-building workshop, I learned a visualisation technique. I’ll put Mark in a box.
    I line the box with paper. Strands of shredded pink, like fireworks bursting. Inside the box, he is safe and out of the way. A good imagining.
    Straighten skirt. Reapply lipstick.
    I can’t wait to unzip her out of that jacket.
    Unzip.
    There is no sexier word.
    She’s in her bedroom. ‘Mum, I said I’d be there. Bye.’ She switches her phone off and dumps it in a drawer. ‘God, what a control freak.’
    Books everywhere. She may have more books than I do. Book towers, buildings, a city of literature on her desk. There’s a dirty bike leaning against a wall.
    The jacket is second-hand, scuffed, worn, blue-black at the edges, softer than it looks. The zip-pull is thick, thumb and forefinger polished. The chrome teeth shine.
    I push it off her shoulders. It lands on the floor, staying in its just-shed position. A question answered: white singlet, no bra.
    BJ sits me on her bed, unbuttons my blouse, leaves me in my bra and skirt, walks to the window and draws the curtains. She plugs her iPod into its dock and turns up the volume, big guitar thumping and a beautiful voice.
    ‘Who’s this?’
    ‘Regina Spektor, “That Time,” she says. ‘It’s our song.’
    ‘Yeah, I know.’
    She undoes her top jeans button, and saves the rest of her buttons for me. She smiles a come-and-get-it smile. I have a small second of worry. Can I do this? Can I touch her there? Kiss her there? And, what if I’m bad at it?
    I pull her singlet up and over her head. Kiss her. I’ve never kissed anybody shorter than me—not like this—this must be how men feel. My hands on her shoulders. I slide them down, cup her breasts, feel their weight, softness. Kiss her again. I’m shaking. I pull away.
    She’s smiling. She takes my hand from her breast and positions it on