One of the two attendants was keen to advise, and with her help, then on my own, I narrowed it down to three possible teapots and two possible styles of cup. I carried them from their shelves, put them next to each other, scared I was going to bash an edge, chip a spout. Yeah, yeah, they looked good together, but then so did those other ones, but not so much, no, maybe actually a little more, no, yes, no, ha.

I was itchy with indecision, knew I was being watched by the two attendants. I had to get home in time to drive the kids to Sarah’s brother Kyle’s for the night so she could go to a party while I stayed at home alone rueing the fact I’d decided not to go, rendering Kyle’s babysitting services pointless but for the fact he so rarely offered or agreed and, if shunned, might never again.

I made my choice, a blue-grey teapot – Sarah would love it, just her style – and two cups from the same set, carried them towards the checkout, nearly all the way to the attendant’s eager hands, before returning through a narrow aisle to reconsider my options. The green one was better, its design similar to pre-Colombian teapots I’d seen in Peru with Sarah. Travelling – that had been our bag for a while. Europe, Asia, South America. Sarah knew salsa, the milonga, knew them all.

The cups that most closely matched the teapot were not by the same artisan but they looked good together, like they belonged. I put them closer to each other on the shelf, looked at them, asked the attendant when she came across if she thought they belonged, and yes, she did, she thought they looked very nice together, that it was a very good choice – for someone special?

‘My wife. She’s turning forty in a week.’

‘Well, she’s very lucky. This is a lovely gift. Would you like me to wrap them up carefully for you?’

I stood sweating and smiling, watching the woman wrap the gifts. Saw a scarf among several that would look good on Sarah – not instead of the teapot, the cups, but in addition –

A text from Zac: Any luck, dude?

From me: Yeah, kind of :/

I took the scarf from the rail, read the card. Japanese silk, a natural hand-dyeing process, white and magenta pattern. It reminded me of the one I’d bought her in Hong Kong, my first ever token of affection. She was still dancing professionally at the time, on tour with Tasty Moves in Asia. I was a backpacker, working as a DJ in the basement of her hotel, hanging out with expats and taking speed to get through my lacklustre sets. Until, there we were, suddenly together – both from Melbourne, uncannily enough, both single, and –

The scarf was … fuck …

‘Yeah, on the credit card, too, please.’

* * *