He tried to kiss me and I moved my lips dryly over his, on again and off again, on again and off again.

‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘This is nice.’

He went to the bathroom for what seemed like a long time and came out with wet prints on both sides of his shirt. The grotto of his bedroom had begun to feel oppressive, taking on the smells of sex where there had been none.

A car horned outside, where it was a beautiful day, and I could smell the dry air rising off the bitumen, breezing in on shining currents, chemical and hot.

‘Come and smoke with me,’ he said. ‘I don’t do it very much.’ He grinned, and did that thing where he looked at me and looked away again. Either he had once been told this was adorable and deliberately adopted it, or he did not realise he was being adorable. I was inclined to like it because it got me off the bed and out of a situation that I knew was going to get more depressing the longer we continued.

We were clothed but I still felt bare and unprotected, because the window faced the road. There were no people down there, only rushing cars, and across the road the yellow bricks of that art deco apartment building, looking both eaten and rotten. In New York you could smoke out of your window all day if you wanted and nobody would ever have to know. I wondered what it would be like to have that naked anonymity, knowing you were only one of many.

‘I would ask you how you went in Fitzroy last week,’ he said, ‘but I can tell you don’t really like questions.’

I stared at him. What a thing to say. I felt like saying, guess what? I love questions. Guess what I don’t like, leading statements that literally beg to be argued with.

‘Where are you going?’ he said.

I was going towards the door.

I spun around and pointed. ‘I thought you thought I didn’t like questions,’ I said.

‘Wow,’ he said and smiled and laughed. ‘Good one,’ he said.

I instantly felt rude. This was what I got from only spending time with Dan, who had done this exact thing more than once, spun around and pointed in order to ‘catch’ me, a habit that I understood was invasive and alarming but characterised as swashbuckling and bold.

‘Maybe I’ll see you around,’ I said.

‘Wow,’ he said again.

I shook his hand.

He smiled.

I’d leaned Lachlan’s bike against a light post near the art deco apartments, on the struggling nature strip across the busy road. When I bent down to retrieve the helmet, I heard a voice yelling ‘Mate! Hey, mate!’ from somewhere up above.