Sitting under the uneven flow of water in the bottom of the shower, I pull my knees to my chest and let the water fall over my head, down the bridge of my nose, and hit my knees. The water bounces off my nose bridge so fluidly it misses my mouth entirely, and I have this little pocket of air that I'm breathing in and out, like when you find an air bubble in Minecraft underwater.

The bathroom is freezing, and I can see my breath. We never close the window in here as a crude attempt to mask the smell of mildew, and the water is so hot it does that thing where it feels like ice, like when you find out the blue flame isn’t cold but actually radically hot. Periodically, I stick my tongue out to interrupt the flow of water from my nose to knee and let it bounce off my tongue like a gargoyle water feature or Mélusine. 

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When I get into bed, I turn on an hour-long compilation of E!’s Botched, and pull all the blankets over my head so I can only sort of hear Dr Dubrow and Dr Nassif perform a breast augmentation on some poor woman and will myself to sleep. Sometimes I try to read Other Men's Daughters, with no avail. 

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I'm really trying to be normal and mostly wash the smell of vinegar off me. We have a mouse infestation in the house, which has led to me mostly not sleeping because I'm terrified of them going near my bed, and not eating because I'm terrified of going into the kitchen and touching contaminated food. I carry a spray bottle of vinegar and douse everything in a 10-metre radius around me, including my clothes, every hour or so to ward them off. Because every house in North Melbourne has vermin, the agent says to just live and let live. 

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I had a rat run over my foot as a child, and the look of their vermicular tail still makes me gag. It has actually turned into a phobia that prevents me from living my normal life; apparently this is a ‘common, specific phobia’, and again, I must live and let live re. the rodents. To soothe myself, I decide that these mice are in fact a symbol of psychological punishment towards me. And until they are gone, I mustn't sleep or eat. Mice are scared of carts. Tom and Jerry. 

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“That was an epic night,” the message reads. 

“Yeah, it was,” I reply. 

The night consisted of being ‘very calm’ and looking through photo books on my filthy Kilim rug; we speak about Steiner school and some photographer I forgot the name of, and I say: 

“Did you go to that Richard Kern show?” 

“When he was here?” 

“Yeah, on Gertrude St.” 

“Nah, I didn't…you’re a Richard Kern girl?” 

“I wish a million I was.” 

“You could be, easily... you already are to me.” 

SCORE. 

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And then we’re getting naked, and then we’re sort of having that stopping-starting sex you have when you're not all there. He lies on my chest for ages and talks and talks, and I curl his hair around my index finger in a daze, and it’s all very… emotionalish. I don't realise how wide open my eyes are as I stare at his mouth as he talks. 

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Around 1 a.m., he stands at the foot of my bed, pulling his jeans back on. 

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“Will you come back tomorrow?” I ask. 

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He tells me he doesn’t like making promises he can’t totally, like, one hundred per cent keep.

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“That’s okay. I get it. You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.” I am trying to be Chill Girl.

“I don’t want to leave you disappointed.” 

“No, it’s fine. Just go. Just go.” 

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Secretly, I want him to tell me something validating. He doesn’t. 

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He leaves. I get a kiss on the mouth, and his tongue hits the back of my throat so hard our teeth knock together, silver caps and all. I want him to spit in my mouth again, but that moment has passed. He probably would, though, if I asked. 

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“Bye, sweet girl.” 

“Bye now.” 

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My bubble of serenity and Valium has been popped. The big cloud I was rolling in on is now a Nimbus, chucking rain, and it’s soggy, and it’s shit, and everything sucks because I am SO alone. 

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I wait five minutes, then ten. After the fifteen-minute mark, I know he’s not going to knock on the door and come back. 

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I lie on my back, half awake and half asleep in a daze. Every time I feel myself drifting off, I stop myself because of the mice. I wake up the next day at two and take myself for a walk and realise that I’m not as miserable as I thought I was. But I want to be miserable. 

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My sleep/joy/crying deprivation has beckoned me into a phase of acute self-awareness. Like my mind has become incredibly sharp. I'm hyper-aware of a pinched nerve in the right side of my neck that leaves me with a chronic headache I have spent literally thousands of dollars on acupuncture trying to fix. 

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My eyes and eyelids are this red shade that kind of looks like eczema, and I have huge bags underneath them. I've noticed my brows are almost perpetually raised and furrowed. I look old. I look disoriented. Sometimes I wake up and find myself walking around with my mouth open like an idiot just trying to fill the time. 

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Fitting at 11 a.m. on the 11th floor in Room 11 of The Century Building, run into Phil From The Gallery and talk about his friend who's running for the Williamstown Labour seat and yachting, nodding, yepping, ahhhohhhing, then a phone call job interview at 2.30 p.m. 

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How do I actually know these people? When did I agree to these appointments? Why am I doing this again? Is there something wrong with my job? Do I have any money? Well, that's an easy one: no. 

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I’m living as a bisect, one half of me that is awake and the other that deals with the consequences of it. All choices I make are those of someone who operates with all senses inhibited. Or maybe a blackout drunk. 

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I'm not sure what's wrong with me. It feels like I'm in a time warp. I am a love addict, and it is hard to be alone, and this is not to be confused with lust. I cried in the work bathroom, which is something I've never done before, surprisingly. I've done a lot in that bathroom. 

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I should clarify, I do not work in fine dining™ hospitality. 

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One of the artists we represent brought in a portrait titled Spahn Ranch Figure #5. The man in the drawing looked exactly like Josh if he had blue lasers coming out of his eyes, a boy I was friends with as a teenager who died about six months after I graduated high school. I have mostly repressed all memories of him and the remarkable guilt I feel for never going to his funeral. 

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But the tenderness in this drawing's face was kind of looking into the face of an angel, I suppose, not in the psychic type way though. The drawing made me realise how fast time goes. And how handsome he was. And how young I actually am. 

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Josh hasn't been alive for years. I've lived in so many different houses since then; I've got a degree, I've dated and broke up and got engaged and broke up. Got a job, quit and got another job. Made a friend and stopped seeing another. Suns and stars exploded. Babies are born. What the fuck is anything at all. 

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I'm always alone at work, so no one hears me sobbing. Boys' faces make me cry. Living or otherwise.

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