‘It’s okay, baby,’ you say. ‘I’ll massage you tonight.’ Your husky tone envelops my brain and trickles down my spine like warm oil.

‘Thanks,’ is all I can manage, under the spell of you. It’s a lame response but you don’t seem to mind.

You spin the dial on the radio. Your fingernails are the color of ripe eggplant. As each station comes and goes, you watch my face intently. A mishmash of songs assembles out of the ether and dissolves again into the harsh hiss and crackle of static. The drone of a newsreader fades in and out, and something on my face — the slight deepening of the cleft between my eyebrows, perhaps — makes you return to the news channel.

‘Cheers,’ I say. And it is such a thin word, so out of place, when spoken to you.

You smile. The sun behind you, as we reach top of the pass, silhouettes your face and lights up the ends of your stray hairs, like fibers in an optic lamp.

We listen to the announcer give an update on some lost fishermen off the east coast, close to where we are heading. A local gardener comes on and gives autumn planting advice in an accent of red leather and aftershave. Michael Mansell is the next guest speaker. He explains how an Aboriginal treaty in Tasmania could work. He’s really selling it. He makes it all seems so possible, so right.

You trace the barbed-wire tattoo on my wrist with your fingernail. Goosebumps spread to my upper arm, where a full-colored flag has been deeply etched.

‘I support a treaty,’ you say.

And, oh, do I believe you.

~

We stop for coffee at a general store. It’s one of those country shops — the ones where the family lives out back. A teenage girl, with greasy hair and unbranded clothes, appears from behind an internal door to serve us. I catch a glimpse inside before the door springs shut. Cloth nappies hang on a wire rack before a wood heater — and somewhere further back, a loud American soap is drowning out a whingeing toddler. You order me a long black decaf, delivering the words with confidence. The upturned corners of your mouth betray your pride in remembering how I like it. On the counter, you place two large bottles of water. You tap the top of one with a hard fingernail.

‘This one’s for next to the bed,’ you say with a wink before sauntering out with the goods, leaving me to pay. A bell is strung to the door with rough jute twine. Its jingle, so welcoming upon our entrance, sounds flat and false as the door shuts hard behind you.

~

‘Tell me something,’ you say, when we’re back on the road. You are tucked up on the seat again, facing me.

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. You’re the writer — weave some magic.’