She turned her attention back to the black windows. “Sorry you're not my type,” she shot him down coldly. “Well now, aren't you miss high and ...ighty,” he laughed. “but I wasn't hitting on you. Just being polite.” She turned and stared at him. He was sprawled across the plastic seat next to her, a rakish grin fixed on his face. Her brain screamed he was trouble, but his incorrigible behaviour made her smile. “Henry,” he said, offering her his hand. “Julie,” she replied. He shook her hand, then. I reread Upfield's An Author Bites the Dust, as murder in a fictitious Melbourne suburb was the closest I could get to Sydney (actually, the one about the Kelly Gang would be nearer in distance, but further in reality). Rachel took her book on the folktales of Indians in the American north-west. We had a fine time: together, comfortable, peaceful. After a few hours we walked home, stopping to get some take-out from Thai Times. After dinner, we went to bed for peaceful togetherness.We cleaned. More

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