I look out at the street. It’s late morning, so the local Greek residents have done their watering and weeding and are walking up and down the treeless footpath, catching up. The elderly women are clad in black, stockings and all, the men with their hands clasped behind their backs, stopping to talk to people they know and taking the pulse of the neighbourhood before heading back to continue work on their gardens. A man in a navy-blue fisherman’s cap and a waistcoat buttoned over a white collarless shirt yawns as he passes by the window.

‘Hey.’ Ryan and Sal sit down opposite me.

Sal wrinkles her nose at the plastic blue-and-white-checked tablecloth, then runs her eyes around the restaurant while Ryan peruses the blackboard menu. The man at the table closest to ours is reading a small hardback and making notes with a stubby pencil in the margins. I watch his long hair sweep across what’s left of his scrambled eggs as he reaches for his glass. Cat Stevens’ ‘Wild World’ plays in the background.

‘Any reason?’ I ask, pointing at Ryan’s clean-shaven face as he rubs his fingers across his chin.

‘I couldn’t stand one more comment from my mother.’

I laugh. ‘Betty can be quite persuasive.’

‘You remember?’ He smiles.

Sal strokes his cheek. ‘You’re gorgeous no matter what.’ Then sighs. ‘I’d forgotten how boring Brisbane is.’

Since I’m keen for them to feel this way I don’t defend the place. But in truth, her comment doesn’t make sense in this part of town, a suburb I frequent because it’s never dull: there’s a mix of factories, a cinema, market gardens. I don’t point out the man and woman who’ve wandered out from the Anarchist Centre and are heading towards the bus stop, both visions of West meets East or, rather, West steals clothing from India, hairdos from Jamaica and jewellery from Africa. Sal has more or less given me an opener to the conversation I want to have.

‘Probably time to think about heading back to KD,’ I say.

The waitress puts our coffees on the table and Sal gives hers right back, ignoring my words. ‘Too milky.’ Working in a restaurant hasn’t changed the way Sal deals with people whose job it is to serve her. ‘I’ll need another one.’

‘Sal, honey,’ Ryan says as the waitress takes her cup.

‘Why should I drink bad coffee?’

He gazes at her as though she’s said something delightful. I don’t know why we both find her arrogance endearing, forgivable, almost elegant, but we do.

‘Anything to eat?’ The waitress regards us with contempt. ‘I’ll be sure to hold the milk.’

As so often happens, I try to compensate for Sal’s rudeness. ‘A toasted ham-and-cheese sandwich, please. Thank you.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Same,’ Ryan says. ‘Sal?’

‘A decent coffee.’

The waitress walks away, shaking her head.

‘So, hey,’ I try again. ‘What’s our go-home date? I’m thinking I can leave by February.’

‘February?’ Ryan says. ‘Why are you hanging around that long?’