‘Enjoy.’ The waitress smiled, retreated.

Sarah had gone to an effort. Her exposed neck and chest, her dark eyes, mascara, painted lips. She sipped her wine, looked across the restaurant. It was Zac’s recommendation, Mexican but, you know, like, really high quality.

I could close my eyes. I could open them. I could breathe through my nose and mouth.

Sarah had some taco sauce on her fingers, just a little. ‘You’re not going to eat?’

I could wriggle my toes, move my fingers. I’d gone into a similar but less extreme shutdown with Biddy the evening after her final show. I hadn’t known why, beyond the fact I’d been burning the candle not only at both ends but in the middle, hot wax dripping, cooling and congealing, but she’d kept talking, laughing, and I’d eventually come round.

Sarah chewed, swallowed. I could bend my neck, look at my lonely taco. I could straighten my neck.

The meal and time alone with Sarah was my birthday treat, I was aware of that. The damage I was doing wasn’t good for either of us, I was aware of that, too.

She coughed, cleaned her fingers with a serviette, raised another taco to her mouth, leant forwards to get it in. Fish, it was fish.

I could hear. I could see.

* * *

I could walk along Collins Street. I could slow down and walk six or seven steps behind Sarah. I could see men looking at her, could run to her defence if needed.

I could stand at the tram stop with her, look at the tracks, re-read Mel’s unanswered text from earlier: BIG NEWS: Josh and me are finished. Text/call/coffee?

‘That was a wasted opportunity, Chris,’ Sarah said. ‘Don’t you want to spend time with me?’

I could look at my Myki card, remember I had no credit. I could walk to a shop, any shop. I could not say goodbye.

She was still there when I returned, looked at me, shook her head, eyes glistening.

I could say nothing on the tram. I could say nothing on the walk from the tram. I could say nothing when we got home.

* * *

It was Friday, at least, and that was good. I had my big Bluetooth headphones on, couldn’t hear myself typing pretend emails, couldn’t hear my colleagues talking, hadn’t talked to anyone since arriving at work four hours earlier. The music was great, Bowie, only stopped momentarily – beep – fucking hell, when someone called or texted, like –

Biddy: Oh, Chris! Are you sure?! I was really, really looking forward to this evening

I was a font of frustration, the deliverer of doom.

From me: Yeah, I know, me too. But I’m really tired and need some time alone. Maybe we can do it in a couple of days?