While she was still in the studio, I crept out to the verandah to have a coffee and a cigarette. It had been raining all week; everything I touched held damp like a memory. I looked out at the big bruise of the sky. The thing still awed me, really: all that space. I was only used to my small section of the universe, hemmed in by all the awkward augers of civilisation. Out here, though, other worlds still seemed possible. I could hear muffled piano. My mind filled in the rest of the song, her voice filling out the chorus. I blew smoke up into the dying day, leaving my breath to travel where it would.


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