‘I’m all right,’ I replied, using the last of my air. I took a step back, out from the cool strip of shadow cast by the shop eave and into the sun, grabbing the chance to slug a belly-breath, which, although clear of Terry’s reek, was laced with heady bitumen and fuel from the car park.

‘Ho ho,’ Terry chuckled, swaying in the shadows, and as he agreed, ‘Yes, you are,’ he lifted the neatly rolled newspaper that had, up until that moment, been hanging loosely in his hand, and—in, what was for Terry a surprisingly coordinated act—used the space I’d created between us to punctuate his words by lightly rapping my breasts with the newspaper, one after the other, like they were the keys of a xylophone.

I recoiled. I folded my arms over my chest and tucked my hands into the hollows of my sweaty, spiky armpits. Silently, I cursed the unyielding bulges that pressed into my forearms.

The still pointed newspaper wavered in the air, then flopped flaccidly to Terry’s side, and from the look on his face, it seemed that if I was astonished by his actions, he was even more so. ‘Oh, sorry ’bout that,’ he stammered, blushing and blinking, confused, like someone just woken from a nap in the sun. ‘Just meant to say that it’s good to see you looking so well and all. It’s a compliment, ya see?’

‘Aha. Well. Thanks?’ I ventured. ‘Anyway, I’m after milk.’ He was still in my way but didn’t pick up on the hint, so after an incredibly awkward pause during which we both shuffled about a bit, looking at our feet, I nodded my head towards the shop door.

‘Oh, sorry. Right you are, Lucy. Well, we’re all so pleased for ya anyway,’ he mumbled as he lumbered out of my way; then, as if grasping for some semblance of normality, added: ‘And say g’day to Jem for me, oh, and Merry Christmas, if I don’t see youse before then.’

As I sped in and out of the tangled knots of bracken and eucalyptus and the smooth folds of pea-green pasture that flank the highway, all I could think was: This place is unreal sometimes; fucking unreal.

It’s funny, isn’t it? The way small details from specific moments stick in your head. I remember so clearly the way beads of perspiration gathered on the plastic milk carton sitting on the seat beside me, wetting the upholstery as I drove. Also, the fact that I wound down the window to let the cool air buffet my cheeks and claw at my hair.