PROLOGUE

SOMEWHERE NEAR THE END

I first felt her presence inside of a dream – in a place where every surface felt like her skin and I needed the breath that left her lungs to stay alive. It was here where choirs sang over deathly drums and everything shivered and dripped and stung and felt like home. I wanted to leave just to feel the sickness of needing to return, but it didn’t matter what I wanted. She already owned the nature of my thoughts, the pace of my pulse, the blood in my crotch. She owned my secret lies, my histories – everything I’d done or said I’d done and all I’d eventually do. I would have fought a war on four fronts just to feel her tighten around my tongue, and this was before we’d ever exchanged words.

I’m still inside this place, whether awake or asleep. I still can’t separate heaven from hell.

And I still love her beyond death.

—-

He showed up in the last place I expected. I’d spent 31 years eyeing the gap underneath the door and he came bursting through my blind spot. I’d always prided myself in my ability to prepare; if there were seven possible outcomes to a situation I’d have seven possible reactions up my sleeve – and that’s the way I thought I liked it. But he raised me up and up until comforts grew uncomfortable, until safety became poison. I finally became that explorer I’d always wanted to be, that seeker of the new – I washed my limbs in his scent and lived to bleed into his blood. I craved his animal as much as the slight grazing of his fingertip. Even if he wanted to, he could never stop filling me. With him, I was everyone I wanted and didn’t want to be.

With him, I was a clear waterfall flowing into a murky lake.

And I still love him beyond death.

—-

CHAPTER ONE

BLUE PAINT

Janice forces out a grunt as she moves her overweight thumbs across the tatty roster.

“Bloody Graham. May as well be in Arabic. That’s what I get for putting a straight male in admin.”

I almost ask if I can decipher the handwriting for her, but all that comes out is a faux-clearing of the throat.

She gives it one last once-over and tosses it aside.

“I can’t read it, you’re going to have to wait until he’s back tomorrow.”

Great. So, I can’t find out whether I can pick up a shift tomorrow until tomorrow.

“No worries, Janice.” I smile and nod pleasantly, and head towards the staff exit of Maxwell Library.

Just before my brown flats clip the automatic door sensor…

“Sarah?”

I turn back with hopeful eyes. Please come baring shifts.

“Why do you even need it? If Larry brought in what your man does, I’d be living it up.”

“I like libraries.” The best excuse I find.

Janice retrieves the roster and holds it close to her face. Flips over the page.

“Cataloguing is overstaffed as it is. Only got room in scanning.”

“Scanning’s fine. Scanning’s great.”

Janice peers over the paper to check my face for sincerity. She sighs.

“8am. Paul will show you the ropes.”

“You’re a star, Janice.”

I move through the automatic doors wearing a smile too wide for someone that’s just picked up an extra eight hours work at $21 an hour.

Stretching my ankles on the concrete steps, I breathe sweet relief. Driving gets me home in twenty-one minutes. A train takes twenty-six minutes. A bus and a short walk takes thirty-nine. For the past few months I’ve opted to walk, which usually takes me over an hour.

Hopefully I’ll get lost on the way.

Almost an hour-and-a-half later, I reach the mouth of my street, and that sprawling avenue of trees. Gum trees on either side of the road with branches that stretch over its middle and tangle together. I used to think it was a majestic sight – a physical embodiment of the beautiful life Robert and I had before us. Each morning I’d swing open the French doors leading to my bedroom balcony and breathe in the scent of leaves. It placed my day on the right path. I felt protected, ushered into the day by nature.

Now, the trees are just trees. The leaves now clutter up the road. And the way they force a canopy over my world is only claustrophobic.

At the front door, I flick through my keychain, dragging my search out for as long as i can, as if the big brass key to the security dooor doesn’t stick out like a sore thumb. I cross the threshold into this big, inescapable space, and the door laughs as it closes behind me.

Something like home.

The furnishings in our three-story Edwardian were all purchased in 2006. It was a time when dressing every inch of every room was liberating. Where I could express my commitment to this life through expensive wood and moulded ceramic. I’d host dinner parties and sunny cocktail afternoons for those I hadn’t seen in years just so I could reveal how far I’ve come. From that reckless young girl who wanted nothing more but to let the arms of time edge her in any direction, to a professional, educated woman with an ambitious, dependable husband and a future filled with exponential prosperity.

But now there’s nobody left to boast to, nothing left to boast about.

My bare feet make no sound as they move along the living room floor, sticking to the checkered tiles as I head towards the backyard. I hate myself for hoping the back granny flat isn’t lit – as if Robert’s finally decided to move his business to a more typical definition of an office. I used to love the fact he refused to move his workspace out of the home. He wanted to be near me. He wanted his dreams to be laid bare for me to see, just as he wanted mine to be for him. I loved sitting on the back porch reading a book and watching his silhouette pacing back and forth. I found his dedication so completely attractive – as if it was only a matter of time before he threw a lasso around the world and pulled it whichever way we saw fit.

And he wanted the same for me. At least, he did at one time. I’d always dreamed of putting my history major to use and breaking into the world of historical non-fiction. If he saw me procrastinate or give meaning to meaningless distractions, he’d remind me of that dream. Heck, he’d often bring home long-forgotten texts from second hand bookstores – dusty, frayed things that smelled of legacy. But as the years progressed it became apparent that he was merely trying to relieve his own guilt for being so busy, and giving support to something that he never saw as more than a hobby. Now, when I mention finally sitting down to write, he provides me with the following thought to chew on: At least you’re surrounded by history at work. Thank you, my darling.

But light spills from the granny flat whether I like it or not. Robert might have the means to move his business to any of Martin Place’s premium spaces, but that doesn’t mean he will. And I’ll continue to tiptoe around the place. An invisible accessory.

I often wonder if my bitterness makes me a brat. That I resent Robert for something that I signed up for, something of which many others only dream. The man has never done anything wrong. He provides, he cares as best he can. He’s never called me a name, raised his hand to me, or been unfaithful. He can cook, he isn’t adverse to cleaning, and he’s highly proficient at solving problems. Just because our souls seem out of sync, doesn’t mean he deserves these kind of resentful thoughts. Perhaps my expectation that we’d eventually know each other so completely that an unbreakable beam would form between our eyes, is only for the movies. Maybe there’s no such thing as real love, and only realistic love. Maybe masking our darkest corners and longings and dissatisfactions is part and parcel. Maybe, eventually, love is just being in the presence of another body that isn’t going anywhere. Maybe I’m just being a child, and desire is a thing better left to youth.

He climbs into bed while I’m still stuck in half-sleep, and wraps an arm around me, pressing his body against my back. He smells of too much toothpaste, which means he probably snuck a few drags of a Dunhill Blue sometime during the evening (I often find barely-smoked cigarettes near the back fence). For some reason his tentativeness bugs me, sometimes I wish he’d just smoke a whole cigarette just so I could catch him out and we’d have something to argue about, but the truth is if the man thought to ask, he’d know that I have no problem with the smell, or the taste. In fact, it’d remind me of a time when things were less predictable. It’d make me feel like I’m living, even for a moment.

“How was work?”

As he begins to drift to sleep, he grabs a tight hold of my right breast, as if it’s his favourite plush toy, blind to the fact that it may as well be locked in a vice. I breathe a resigned breath and do absolutely nothing about it.

—-

A shadow moves over me.

I’m flat against a ground I can’t see. It feels hot and cold at the same time. It’s dark, but I know for sure I’m outside. This figure is in control without being forceful, gradual without being timid. He smells foreign, but not unlike home. He seems to know my body better than I do; I don’t have time to think or feel or do anything other than this, and I don’t want to. He grazes and slides and grazes and slides and just when I think my breath is about to be taken away he gives it back to me.

After what could have been a single moment or the longest lifetime, we relax into a tight formation, as if the final two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. The last thing I hear is the sound of the chain around his neck rattling against the necklace around mine.

—-

“Then you turn this knob 45 degrees. You wait for the little groaning noise then turn it another 45 degrees”

Paul leans on the industrial scanner and his eyes assess my engagement.

“Sarah?”

I snap back to reality.

“Yes, turn it 45 degrees.”

“And then?”

I search my subconscious for further information. Nothing. Paul chortles like an uncle.

“And then you wait for the little groaning noise, and…”

I’ve already tuned out. Last night’s dream floats at the front of my mind, obstructing all other concerns. I’ve been trying all morning to replay it, to grab hold of a single image, but my memory isn’t visual, it’s sensory. As soon as I try to conjure a moment, my entire body grows into a kind of fever; light and heavy, pale and flushed, and completely enveloped in goose bumps. It’s a feeling that can’t be captured in words, something I’ve never felt before.

I didn’t think there was such thing as a new feeling – it excites and scares me, it fills me with anticipation and guilt, and I can’t wait to feel it again.

“That’s an interesting grin.” Paul squints to further assess my face.

“Sorry.” is the only word that comes out.

“Yes, you should be. Sarah, this is a library, there’ll be no outward expressions of joy here.” Paul quips.

I laugh and refocus on the task at hand, ignoring the fact that someone has just used my name and happiness in the same sentence.

That afternoon I sit near the back of the bus, armed with a detailed plan on how I can get to sleep earlier than usual. I’ll arrive home, eat a light dinner then read for an hour while my stomach settles. I’ll wear myself out on the treadmill, take two melatonin capsules and a shower (which always seems to tire me), drink a cup of tea and be in bed by 9. That way I’ll be fast asleep before 11 when Robert emerges from his cave. I just have to make sure last night’s dream is the last thing on my mind before I drift off.

I check my watch. Only nineteen minutes left until the bus reaches my street.

The bus eases over to the side of the road, picking up a long line of commuters fresh from the station, including a few casino-weary senior citizens with high-maintenance hips. I place my bag on the seat next to me so as to avoid sitting next to a stranger, check my watch again without registering the time, and turn my frustration out the side window.

As the new commuters shuffle along the aisle, I keep my gaze focused outside and wince, hoping to God I’m left to my own imagination.

“Excuse me”. A low whisper.

I smile into the middle distance and place my bag on my lap, freeing up the seat next to me, avoiding eye contact with whoever is invading my personal space.

The first thing I always notice is the smell. The 463 is dominated by the elderly, so I’m usually confronted with a lethal amount of potpourri-smelling perfume, or worse, an ageing musk that serves as nothing but a bleak reminder of the future. I often find myself breathing into my sleeve, or even hopping off the bus early and completing the journey on foot.

This time the smell is nowhere near as typical, but just as invasive. An unsettling combination of dirt, dust, and body odour. I use my peripheral vision to catch a glimpse of his hand that rests squarely on his knee. It’s flicked with light blue paint. He’s sitting with his legs agape, and like most men, ignorant to the fact that he’s taking up more than half of the seat. I shuffle as far away from him as I can and attempt to re-enter my imagination.

We round a harsh corner. The bus’s speed sways both out bodies to one side, and his shoulder momentarily grazes mine. We grab hold of the closest metal beam as the bus straightens and we’re returned to an upright position. But somehow in the process, this pungent brute has taken up more of the seat, his arm now so close to mine I can feel the hairs of it against my skin and it’s claustrophobic.

I curl my shoulders inwards, ensuring my arm is now well clear of the man. But instead of reading my body language, he conveniently reaches into his pocket, fussing around for nothing and forcing his bare upper-arm to press against mine. Instead of beating at the red button and finding freedom at the nearest stop, I relax a little, almost despite myself, until I’m half-committing to the touching of our arms.

For someone so seemingly rough, the skin of his upper-arm is soft, and warm. The movements of the bus occasionally pull our arms apart, but never for long enough for me to step outside the moment, only long enough for me to anticipate the shivers that came with their reconnection.

What was I doing?

The bus changes lanes, and he takes the opportunity to let his blue fingers fall close to my knee. For some reason I don’t stop it. For some reason I keep my head turned away and chew the inside of my cheeks.

All of a sudden, these slight, ‘accidental’ touches give way to something more focused. His hand wraps around the circumference of my knee.

A warm pulse shoots from my knee into every other part of my body, but before it’s fully felt, I launch to my feet and lunge for the red button. I keep my eyes in any direction but his as I shuffle past his knees, feeling the rough material of his trousers touch my legs as I reach the aisle and almost clipping his hose with my handbag. I move straight to the front of the bus and take refuge near the driver.

I exhale along with the front bus door, then escape onto the street.

As my feet carry me home, last night’s dream is the furthest from my mind. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just done something depraved, that I’ve given something of myself to someone that shouldn’t have it. I think of Robert, and the champagne toast he made on my recent birthday – Even if I tried, I couldn’t want for anything more than Sarah – and it’s a thought that no frantic shaking of the head can erase.

Footsteps behind me.

I know before I turn around. It’s him.

I keep my eyes firmly fixed on the path ahead of me. The clopping of his boots increasing in volume. Is this how it ends? Is karma finally punishing me for everything I’ve never said? For my cowardice? Do I run? Turn around and scream? Do I pull out my mobile or will that only provoke?

I can’t breathe. My pulse beats in my temples and makes it impossible to think. All I have left is instinct. I walk as steadily as my legs will take me, then casually enter the first driveway I pass, stopping at their front door and fussing for my keys as if it’s my house.

I hear his footsteps come to a stop.

A moment. The longest few seconds of my life.

I finally turn around, expecting the worst.

But he’s vanished, as if he was never there. I didn’t hear him walk away. I never saw his face.

—-

I wrap my arms around Robert and kiss the length of his neck, squeezing him tight.

“How was your day, darling?”

“What’s gotten into you?” He mumbles.

“I just want to know how your day was.”

Robert swivels around and clocks my expression.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Can’t I ask how your day was?”

“It was great. Fine.”

He continues to stare. I feel exposed.

“Great.” I avert my eyes and stroll around the room.

“You seem worked up.”

I brush away his statement, noticing an unopened bottle of Jameson with a green bow still weaved around it. I take it into my hands and pretend to read the label.

“Marty over at Incog. Probably a two-for-one at the airport.”

I smile obligingly and go to place the bottle back in position, but have a thought instead, and swiftly change demeanors, presenting the whiskey to him like a promo model.

“What do you think?”

“On a Wednesday?”

I shrug and place the bottle back where I found it and search the room for other ideas. He watches me.

“Honey. I really should…”

Robert is a big believer in schedules. I knew it when I married him. I’m used to it. In fact, it’s a trait I’ve incorporated into my own personality. Young Sarah would never spend so much time planning public transport routes. But for some reason, in this moment I find his unwavering dedication maddening.

I clam up and stride out of the room as if he’s just insulted me. I want him to call after but he doesn’t.

For me, breakfast is a slice of raisin toast and a banana. For Robert, it’s a big bowl of Greek yoghurt. Last night’s strangeness is forgotten, and I can’t remember the contents of my dreams. Back to normal it seems.

A rumbling and a screeching outside. Then a harsh creak of a truck’s rear door.

Robert peers over his laptop.

“Man, they have a lot of stuff.”

“Who?”

“New neighbours. At least three trucks yesterday.”

I move to the window. Outside, two middle eastern men move an antique dresser through the front gate. On the porch stands a petite woman in her early-thirties. Perfect red-blonde hair, olive skin, tiny waist, and hugged by skin-tight number strewn with angular, abstracted patterns. She barks impassioned directions to the men, in a way that conjures up images of fire.

“Lovely couple. Back in the city after a few months interstate. He’s in scientific research. She’s an interior designer.”

“She didn’t just…”

As the woman lets the removalists pass into the house, I could have sworn she carressed the lower back of the more muscular of the two.

“She didn’t just what?”

“The wife, she…”

A reminder of yesterday’s bus trip forces me to eat my words. I try to find an alternative ending to my sentence, but nothing comes out.

“She…?”

I feign the lost track of my thoughts.

“I honestly can’t remember what I was going to say”.

I turn to the sink and wash my hands for longer than they require, hoping Robert will find the bottom of his bowl and make his way to the office. He doesn’t.

“Sarah.”

“Mmm-hmm.” I don’t turn back.

“Why don’t you go to the beach today? Get some salt air.”

I nod slowly, still half in my head, letting the water crinkle my fingers. Out the window, the fiery woman folds her arms and sucks on a thin cigarette and scoffs at one of the men’s placement of a pot plant.

“Maybe”. I lie.

“Sarah, look at me.”

I turn around to meet eyes with my exemplary example of a husband.

“Is this about last night?”

“My face fills with guilt. Could he know? How could he know?””

“You know how I get if I drink during the week.”

I relax a little, happy that my secret is still a secret. I kiss the man on his forehead and tell him I love him.

He stares up into my eyes and offers an appeased smile.

“I love you too.”

Coming on lunchtime, I’m out front sweeping leaves free from beneath the front gat. I’m so immersed in a deep pocket of my mind that I don’t even notice that I’ve moved the leaves into a star shape. A five-pointed thing that’s almost complete when a loose breath of wind wipes it away.

“Pretty.” A female voice with a thick European accent.

My new fiery neighbour stands on the other side of the gate, dressed in a red bikini, wrapped in a peacock patterned sarong, and holding a tall drink of something the colour of the sun.

“Oh, hey.”

I pat free some dirt from my old Rage Against The Machine tee and meet the woman at the fence.

“Katya.”

“Sarah. Welcome to the neighbourhood.”

“Yes.” She uses the opportunity to eye her surrounds, her thoughts drifting. A hint of disgust in her face. She checks herself and forces a smile.

“It’s nice.” She remarks, unconvincingly, then gestures to a pair of banana chairs on her sprawling front porch.

“Come on, Snow White.”

“Oh, no.”

“I can see my face inside your cheeks. I have some coconut oil.”

“Thank you, Katya, but I-.”

But she’s already making her way back to the porch. Seems like she’s a woman unaccustomed to hearing the word ‘no’.

“Don’t be a stupid.”

“Sorry?” I chuckle at her short sentence as I rub a dot of sunscreen into my forehead.

“You cannot tan with a T-shirt, no?”

I don’t feel entirely comfortable with my body. Regulating my metabolism is an almost impossible task. If I focus too heavily on breakfast, I’ll end up too far on the skinny side, which in my youth filled me with confidence but now makes me feel like a bony boy. If I put more effort into dinner, I quickly thicken around the waist and nowhere else until my body resembles a spinning top. And that’s where I am at now. If I was on my own, I’d probably have no problem, but lying next to this faultless specimen of a woman only amplifies my self-consciousness.

“You are a stupid.”

My neurosis quickly falls by the wayside as I erupt into laughter, copycatting her broken English.

“I am not a stupid.”

She catches on and laughs too.

“You are a very big stupid.”

“Okay, I’m a very big stupid.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

We enjoy a brief moment of childish laughter, and by the time it subsides I’m sitting up and pulling my t-shirt over my head, which of course becomes stuck around my ears – a sight which Katya seems to find hilarious.

“You look like the criminals from in the newspaper.” She cackles as she lights up a cigarette.

Just then, as I’m negotiating this tangle of cotton from my head, a male voice.

“Darl.”

And the sound of a quick kiss.

“Baby, this is Sarah. She is wife to Bob.”

“Good afternoon. I’ve never met a headless woman before.”

Strong male fingers find my hand and shake it. Katya once again bursts into hysterics.

“Don’t mind her. She’s evil” The voice helps me untangle the tee until I once again have view of my surroundings.

In front of me stands the very definition of a man. Tall, broad, muscular but not bulky. Thick, jet-black hair, eyes that seem a concoction of seven separate colours, and an angular face that’s perfectly highlighted by two-day stubble. His grin is cheeky, almost knowing.

He takes my hand again, this time inside both of his hands, and shakes them softly, staring through me.

“Samuel.”

“Sarah.”

He holds my hand hostage for what seems like forever, so much so that my attention are drawn to his fingers, the sight of which remove the breath from my chest.

“I… I’ve gotta…”

I gather my things.

“Stay, take a drink, Stupid.” Katya requests.

“She has things to do.” Samuel supports. Almost as if he’s realised I’m lying and is helping me along.

I smile a casual smile, making eye contact with Katya and only Katya before shuffling back towards the house.

At the living room window, I check on the couple. Samuel now runs his finger from Katya’s neck to the middle of her chest, and even from here I can see his hand.

Blue paint.