Two Clear Halves

The sun is very low and the humid air is dark blue and flitters with mozzies.

She pulls the Falcon into the drive and hauls the groceries out of the boot, limping slightly as she heads up the pathway to unlock the front door.

Inside, the kitchen stays dark for a few seconds as the new energy-saving bulb wakes itself up, so the photos of children and drawings plastered on the fridge and the wall seem to fade in from black, like in a movie.

She lights a cigarette, then leaves it burning on the sink while she unpacks the shopping and starts dinner.

She eats in the lounge room accompanied by A Current Affair, which she watches with grave attention. Her lip curls in an unconscious sneer during one story about a Lebanese drunk driver. During the ad breaks she mutes the TV out of habit, and then the only sound is the faint clicking in her jaw as she chews.

After dinner she reads for a long time, then hauls herself out of the recliner to do the washing up. It's nine o'clock. She has work early tomorrow morning.

She switches the light on in her bedroom and walks past the door without glancing in. The queen-sized bed has two very clear halves; one tidy, the other covered by a pile of men's clothes. Hidden out of sight at the bottom of the pile are several bags of sand.

Further down the hallway she's brushing her teeth in the bathroom. She spends several minutes washing her face, and putting on night cream. When she's done she dabs Old Spice after-shave on the back of her neck. She uses the toilet with the door open, then heads to the bedroom.

On the side-table is an alarm clock, an ugly clay ashtray one of the kids had made at school, and a half-empty pack of smokes. She sets the alarm clock, then lights another smoke and leaves it to burn over the ashtray.

The house is completely silent.

At the other side of the room is a small chest of drawers with a little TV on top. She turns it on and changes the channel. SBS are playing live footage of a soccer match between two unnamed countries many thousands of kilometres away. For a moment she watches and tries to feel the distance between herself and the screaming crowds.

She turns the light off and climbs into the tidy side of the bed, closing her eyes to the noise from the TV. She breathes in slowly through her nostrils, the smell of cigarette smoke and aftershave.

The weight of the sand bags and on the other side of the bed takes on its own presence in the dark. It forms a dimple in the mattress that pulls at her slightly.

After several minutes she begins to drift off. She mumbles 'Don't forget to turn the TV off when you're done, babe' and tugs sleepily for her share of the blanket.

Wes