She wears one of my jerseys to bed; she says it's cold and she'd steal socks, too, but they're holey and smell like guy.

Wouldn't it make sense that my socks would smell "like guy"?

She snuggles up close to me and the cold of the metal zip seeps through my shirt.

Sure, she says, but they could smell clean.


The next day, we drive back to Christchurch in thick fog and a thin sliver of mountaintops peek from the low clouds. It looks like a sky eel, she says, and she steals my camera to take a picture.

She's a natural, that one.

She doesn't give the camera back even hours past Queenstown and when I develop the film two weeks later, I find out that she likes my nose very much.


Windblown hair covers her face as she walks down the street; she looks up at me with flushed, sparkling eyes and giggles. You better delete that picture.

No way, I say, and, just to prove my point, take another three in a row. You're beautiful.

I capture a scowl and a grin. Bet you say that to all the girls.

Just the beautiful ones.


She refuses to sit in the front seat because Nick got coffee and cigarette ash on the upholstery last night, but she won't let me drive like a chauffeur with her in the backseat (but she won't sit on plastic, either), so we scooter down the motorway instead.

This is fun! she yells a little too loudly into my ear. Much better than the Taurus.

I like her arms around my waist, her breasts pressed to my back and her cheek on my shoulder, so I say, yeah, yeah. I could get used to this.