She’d sent me a postcard from Perth when she went over for Matt’s grandmother’s funeral, and one from Katoomba when they went there for their anniversary weekend, and lots from the postbox at the end of her street, their pictures a comforting lie. And I’d sent them back; one from the Gold Coast on a family holiday, another from Melbourne when I went down for a work trip, but mostly they came from op shops. I searched everywhere for the best ones, bought five at a time and sent them one by one, filled with meaningless news I’d tell her on the phone before she got the postcard anyway.

I read them and read them, until my eyes hurt and my breathing got heavy, and then I put them away, got into bed, the pillow flat and the sheets scratchy. A bus rumbled past, stopped, door hissing as it opened and then clanging as it closed. I shut my eyes but nothing happened, counted my breaths. One, two.

Thirteen. Sixteen. Forty-two.

Lost count, but nothing happened. Another bus, meaning another hour had passed. This one didn’t stop.

A truck. Another.

The trucks always went past between three and four on their way to the airport. I sighed, gave up, opened the window and had a cigarette. Then another. It was cold now, and properly still. I considered making myself a cup of tea (chamomile was best, Mum always said), a shot of rum, whisky. Glenmorangie, the eighteen—as though I had a bottle. I shut the window as another bus rolled past. A hiss. A clang. I considered tea, rum, whisky, beer, a quick orgasm—anything to make me sleep—but I didn’t have the energy. I counted my breaths again, gave up at seventy-three. My pulse was racing, oddly, too fast, too hard. I needed to sleep.

But my eyes stayed open.

Somewhere, footsteps. Maybe Marnie going to the toilet, maybe a burglar, an intruder, a deranged ice addict. Or just the creaking of the building as the beams settled, fought, ready to give.

A truck, too close, barely missing the awning. Another, maybe a fuel tanker, one wrong move away from taking out the entire block.

I closed my eyes. Counted. Considered tea, rum, beer, a cigarette, an orgasm, prayer.

Dear God, please let me sleep. I’ll be good, I promise. I’ll do anything.

Somewhere, a bird chirped.

‘Fuck.’

A bird meant it was dawn. My heart hurt as I sat up, giving in. When I pulled the window open this time the light was different. Grey. And there were people, voices, cars.