When I turn the corner, he is standing there in the backyard, as if he'd just stepped out of my thoughts and into a fading green robe, blue striped pyjamas; three day growth on his face and a sleep-mazed frown. He starts on seeing me, lit cigarette drawn from his mouth with slow thin hands.

"H-hey," he stutters, not from nerves but with the hoarseness of a late night and a late morning.

"Hey there yourself," I hear myself chirp. "I - I didn't expect to see you here. I'm just dropping something off for your mum. Door's unlocked?"

"Yeah," he says, still staring at me, eyes breaking me down and piecing me together into tangible thought. "Go right in, you know how - where."

I brush past him on the concrete path through the grass, smoke curling around my skin and his robe, a silk soft touch. I breathe it all in: nicotine aridity, him, the crisp Spring air.

"So, haven't seen you in ages," I burble on, nervous. I am a parody of a stereotype of myself, oh god. He barely responds, a brief nod, murmurs something I cannot catch. I shift the box, its cardboard weight asserting gravity in my arms, and walk beyond him through the back door and into their kitchen. Dropping my load onto the table, as I did time and time again in my childhood and teens - sometimes fresh fruit or homemade delicacies or magazines - I am stricken with nostalgia for what was.

When I walk out of the house he is still standing there, brow furrowed to the light skipping off the surface of the pool, unmoved.

"I have another box to bring in," I say as I brush past again, another deep breath. "Back in a moment."

"Sure," he answers. "Uh, I'd help, but."

But - what? I laugh inwardly as I walk away from him, my hips swinging in a girlish walk I almost never use, not consciously anyway. But. Always lazy, too lazy even to come up with a weak excuse; and the realisation is another memory, familiar and tart, of this boy now almost a man.

The second box is much smaller, cradled easily in the crook of one arm. As I walk back up to him on the path, his cigarette sucked to the last, he stops me with nothing but a finger to my chest.

"You're working already?" he asks, wonder in his voice, tracing the lettering of the badge on my shirt, black on gold, name and title.

"Yeah," I mutter in return, feeling a blush from the twisted smile on my mouth to the tips of my ears.

"Working," he repeats, in a short laugh. "How's that going for you."

"Good, fine," I say lamely, still feeling his fingers on my badge, so close to my heart. "Are you - I don't know - what are you up to?"

"Oh, you know me," he says with a shrug, dropping his cigarette between us. "I failed a few subjects, a few times, so. A couple more semesters, I guess." His hands fall back to his side, the cigarette butt crushed under his toes into the damp grass. I squeeze past him and to the kitchen once more, and I can hear how empty the house is, everyone else out with things to do, this place where I once spent many noisy days.

"Bye, then," I say as I leave, walking past him one final time. I lift my hand in farewell, and it must look as awkward as I feel.

"See you," he replies, and I know we can't mean that. His hands are now shoved in the pockets of his robe. "Hey, good luck with everything."

"Thanks. Uh, you too." I'm beyond him now, and I don't turn my head for a last look. The smell of the smoke is dissipating.

Once around the corner, I can feel the hysterical laughter welling up in me, in my chest, threatening to rise up and choke me. And in my mind the thought beats steady escape escape you escaped and I am still smiling as I drive away.

END

18/09/05

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