The arranged place was not easy to find. Angela drove, her window rolled down. She knew if someone glanced inside her car, they would think: That woman’s life has gone to shit, and she has been living, like a pig, in her car. She imagined the smug satisfaction such a person might derive from the scene: Things are hell for me but I don’t live in my car! The world’s dumb and uneven distribution of sadness was something she had no interest in. Let them have it, she thought. She knew she didn’t live in her car. She lived in a house. Her car was in a state of disorder, yes, but then again so was her house. Except people couldn’t see into her house. If they pressed themselves close to the glass she could simply say, ‘Shoo, peepers!’ and close the blinds. Her car didn’t have blinds. Her car had an overflowing ashtray, a litter of coffee cups, clothes and bundles of coloured paper. Her house was in a row of other houses. She wasn’t that invested in it. It was done when that was the theme – curbing, piping, structure. These days, it was taking her longer to get out of the car and into the house. But, she still did it. The upshot was: her life hadn’t gone to shit.

The car park was deserted, except for a lone, hunched figure resting on the bonnet of a car, in communication with the cloudless night. This moonlit man was Angela’s date. She rolled her tongue absently over her back teeth and watched through the windscreen as he cupped his hands and attempted to light a cigarette. Even as the wind ruined his efforts, he remained unruffled. This, to Angela, was a sign of huge integrity. She smoothed her skirt down over her hips and thighs. She checked her wide-eyed expression. She went slowly about her maintenance. She was older now, forty-one. She would have been unaware of that herself, except people told her. The world practically crossed the street to tell a woman she had gotten older.

‘What the fuck is that?’ Angela’s date said, gesturing to her car, as she rose gracefully from the driver’s seat.

There was always a moment on Angela’s dates, usually at the beginning, when she allowed herself to think: This guy’s the whole package! As the night progressed, the realisation invariably arrived that this man was not a package at all. He was an envelope, an envelope with a bill in it, an envelope she, quite frankly, wanted to put in a drawer and forget all about.

She felt invaded by his judgement but refused to show it. ‘It’s a Honda,’ she said, sweetly.

*