“We don’t do this enough,” Gary said, phlegm bubbling faintly in his chest. I set a bottle of port onto the table. Glasses clinked. Gary sat first. Nigel told us he once changed nappies on that table. Ate runny stews that splattered everywhere. Spread travel brochures showing glossy St Petersburg buildings over the varnish. That table absorbed cigarette smoke and drops of spilled espressos. We sat and Nigel traced its wood grain trailing across the surface, like the lines of low-pressure troughs. 

“When the humidity is high you smell a dirty flannelette shirt from whoever cut the tree down. An odour of a roll-your-own too. Maybe a dash of aftershave from the night before.” Nigel smiled.     

The working week ended two hours ago. Felt my blood pressure drop, expecting the thin hand on Nigel’s barometer to fall to “fair” as I stood next to it. Heat pressed through the evening, late sunlight glaring dirtily with smoke and dust. Nigel dealt cards. They flicked unevenly towards us. Gary studied his. He announced he wanted to move to Yarrawonga. Up north on the Murray River. Sell here, buy there. He’d pass stalks of wheat, moving together in breezes perfectly as synchronized swimming. Sit on riverbanks watching brown waters ripple by, doze under willow trees.

“What about the heat?” I said. “Blow your nose you’d risk dehydration.” Gary replied that four pubs lined the main street. Air conditioning and cold beer were all civilization needed.He held up cards as if they were one of those hand-painted Chinese fans from souvenir shops. He whisked one out, rearranging it next to others. He concentrated, eyes dark.

I’d slept with his wife twice. A pinkish scar mottled above her stomach. I’d first seen it, glanced away, then looked back again, the way I did when noticing a misprint. Felt it against skin, how a loose thread irritates. The second time I visited her, she met me in her wedding dress from eight years ago. The swirling white material dull, diamantes popped, probably lying like gravel in the bottom of a case. Her carved collarbones fell with breath.

“In this,” she said. “Come on. Maybe he’ll find out. That’d be the first truth between us for a long time.” She cupped a hand over my shoulder for balance, shaking her left foot, then right, wobbling off white high heels clopping to floor. Writhed out of the dress. Misshapen and bunched, it sank from her. Bodice first, rear zipper then waist. Her scar reminded of a rip through fabric, stitched with cotton that didn’t match. We barely spoke afterwards. No notes, phone numbers on the underside of my arm, contact details pressed into my mobile. Just her saying it was late, and she had to be somewhere.     

I lost my first twenty dollars. It lay next to Gary, balled-up like a used tissue. Port tasted waxy and sweet. Through a window my car glinted under streetlights flicking on. No doubt the upholstery still oozed warmth, despite evening air. At night, spaces smelt of compost and apricots splitting in heat. Crickets called underground, like water trickling. Nigel stared at cards the way I sometimes examined old photographs, working out who was that next to me, and had I changed that much. He slapped them down.

“Earning faster than my superannuation fund against you two.”

I pressed fingers into temples, massaging deep where bones dipped and ached. I could keep playing and finish the Friday night like four weeks ago. When I went home with all my cash in Nigel and Gary’s pockets. Drive three quarters drunk through streets so choked with bushfire haze it reminded me of fogs last winter, air heavy as bronchitis in my lungs. And I’d forgotten to pick up milk and bread. In the morning Shard hovered above me as I snored myself awake. 

“Pathetic,” she muttered, rolling away.

Nigel said to take a break. If I kept losing like this I’d need to refinance the house. He pointed a remote control across the room and television switched on. English soccer played frantically, sleet billowing at angles. Nigel gripped my shoulder, rousing me.

“Haven’t seen anyone fall asleep that fast without a general anesthetic,” he said. I sat up.

“Was I snoring?”

“I did think there was a wood-chipper in the room.” 

I apologized, telling them lately even dressing for work was exhausting. So was the thought of driving to it, walking through that heavy glass door and queuing for a coffee before sitting at a desk.  Might plan a career cheating on my tax. Or selling what I pilfered from hard rubbish collections.

“They say you need multiple income streams,” Nigel said. “You’ve got accounting and retail right there.”

Last week I walked during the evening. Dogs barked hysterically in distance, how people say they sound before an earthquake. A few people jogged. They bumped past me, breath gulping and hard. Under trees temperature changed. I ascended a hill through turning streets until looking down into my neighbourhood. Couldn’t pick the light of my home lost in the ruled-straight streets, but knew it was one of those glowing back at me. Our television throwing sheet lightning across rooms, hallway light glaring for my return. Emptily I began my descent.  

Nigel slowly circled the table, topping up glasses. Port chugged out. His hand shook and a few drops missed, rolling down the outsides of glasses. He took out a tissue and mopped around the neck of the bottle. Our glasses smelt like over ripe plums.

“I propose a toast to baby boomer angst,” he said.

Gary asked after Shard. Was she still the life of the party? Making grand entrances? I shrugged, enquiring about Caroline. Saying her name took me back to her fingers spread on my chest like a starfish adhered to rock. Her bracelets tinkling, tendons straining in her neck as she looked away, teeth gritting as if in pain. I nodded as he spoke, not hearing a single word.        

I lost one hundred and thirty-six dollars. Plus twenty-three dollars contributed to the bottles of port. I stood at the end, hazy in smoke and tired from concentration. I watched Gary slightly stagger up. Every time I saw him, I expected he’d fix me with a thousand-yard stare, saying Caroline told him. Or he’d thumbed through her diary, finding my name, maybe several lines drawn through as if attempting to hide it, they way criminals wipe off fingerprints.     

Nigel announced he’d won enough to buy an investment property. We followed him down his hallway, a line of beach paintings blurring corners of eyes as if their paint ran. He stood back, shaking Gary’s hand first. Our handshake squeezed hard, still competitive.

“Mind those steps,” Nigel said. And I took them carefully as I always had. Same as climbing stairs when entering that dumpy two-room flat I once rented. Into the labour ward as Shard bristled and arched through contractions. Across customs as I returned from skin rashes and diarrhea in Malaysia. Then my steps took me in the opposite direction to Gary, until I heard him closing in on me.