my finest hour

He had known her for a long time, or imagined he had. He couldn't be sure. He looked across the table at her face, framed in light brown hair. "I love you," she said, setting down a glass of red wine. "What?" "What? 'What?'! What did you think? How could you do this?" He stared back at her. She was beautiful. Her name came to him. "Tess," he said. "You lied to me," she answered, and sobbed. He reached across the linoleum tabletop and took her hand. It sat limply in his palm for a moment, then she pushed him away and took the bottle and topped up her glass, spilling burgundy drops down the side to pool at the base. She took another drink and lay her head on her crossed arms, resting on the table. As she cried, he looked around the cramped kitchen. He'd cooked their first meal on the tiny stovetop, a disastrous lemon chicken which she'd gracefully choked down with a genuine smile. They'd met two years ago in the lounge room behind him, at a party she'd thrown with her housemate. He couldn't remember how he'd been invited, but he remembered seeing her for the first time, dressed as a Bond girl. She had glowed in the dark room, and he introduced himself, danced with her, but had gone home with someone else. She looked up at him, cheeks flush, "I told you we could only be together if there was nobody else, and you promised." Her tears were turning to anger. "And now this!" She rolled her eyes in disgust. He struggled to remember what he'd done. Incongruously, his right foot itched. "Get out," she said, anger now crystallised into fury. "Get out of here," she hissed. He rose. "I'm sorry," he said, tripping over the chair as he stepped back into the lounge room. "Do you even know what that means?" He passed through the narrow terrace to the front door. "What are you apologising for?" She was yelling now. "You bastard!" He opened the door. "Hello," said Nicolle. He blinked at her, and shut the door behind him, stepping into the apartment. She kissed him, flinging an arm around his neck. She pressed her breasts against his chest and bit his upper lip. "You're late," she said, her blue eyes sparkling. He raised his right hand, offered her a bottle wrapped in brown paper. "I had some trouble finding what I was looking for," he said, and handed her the bottle. She slipped off the bag. "Ooh, Australian! How exotic." She winked at him and turned toward the kitchen. "Have a seat. I hope you like spaghetti." "It smells delicious," he said, and walked over to the sofa. He steadied himself. The itch in his foot had become more intense, almost painful. He squirmed in his shoes, trying to scratch it while Nicolle called to him from the kitchen. "The sauce still needs a little longer." She peeked around the corner of the kitchen doorway. "Even though you're late," she admonished, "we still have some time before dinner. I could turn the sauce down low...." He heard something in the tone of her voice, something as inviting as her greeting kiss, but fraught, laden with danger. He pressed his lips together, feeling the slight swelling from her bite. "Okay," he said, trying to sound amiable. Nicolle ducked back into the kitchen and he walked over to the living room window. The apartment was too warm, and he pressed his forehead against the glass. Fifteen storeys below, in the fading sunlight, workers streamed out of the office tower into the vast parking lot to their cars. Old snow drifts, black with city filth, buttressed leafless trees sprouting from islands of dead grass, brown oases in the pavement. "I think you'd like these people," said a woman behind him. "They're really interesting." He recognised the voice, but didn't turn. He looked down, fifteen storeys stretching perspective into a thousand-foot drop. He remembered jumping, falling, landing in water. "Are you asking me out?" he said, turning after a moment. Even from across the office, an enormous diamond glittered on her slim finger. She looked at him slyly. "It's not like that at all. With your philosophy, you'd have a lot share with the group." Her eyes glittered. "It's a coffee club." "My philosophy?" He had no idea what this woman was talking about. "You don't fit in with the people here, same as me." "Will your husband be at the coffee club?" "He's in Europe." The pain in his foot had spread up his calf. "Excuse me," said, and limped past her into the corridor. He needed the toilet. "Go ahead and walk off," Denise growled at him. He turned to see her leaning at the bar, glaring at him. Her full lips were compressed into a frown. A phone rang; he reached in his pocket and pressed to answer. "How about you coming down for a little pre-party party," said the voice on the line. "What?" "We're just up the road from where you're staying. What're you doing now?" Denise was marching up to him from the bar. He hung up. "Who was that?" she asked, brows knitted under her blonde fringe. Before he could answer, her eyes widened. "Oh, my god! Are you okay?" "My leg hurts." "Your pants!" He felt a spreading warmth at his groin, looked down, and watched urine stream down his right leg, over his shoe and onto the wooden floor. The air in the pub was stifling, and sweat rolled down his forehead to join tears as he realised he was crying. "I have to leave," he mumbled, and staggered to the door. As he pushed it open, his right leg gave way, and he fell into a heap on the sand. He tasted brine and felt grit between his teeth. He rolled onto his back. The surf washed over his legs, as warm as blood. The midday sun broke through a passing cloud and he squeezed his eyes against the glare. His right leg was a distant thudding ache, frighteningly more numb than painful. He raised himself on his elbows and looked around as another wave rolled in. To his right, the skiff was beached on the white sand which stretched away on either side as far as he could see. Its rigging fluttered in the salt air. He looked down at his leg. As the surf retreated, swirls of red formed around his right foot, from which extended two vicious-looking spines. Beside his knee, a stonefish flopped in the shallows, dying, half-crushed when he'd jumped from the skiff. His leg was swollen against the cuff of his shorts, turning purple with sunburn and poison. His elbows slipped in the shifting sand and he fell back as another wave broke over his chest. Some metres behind him stood the tree-line, and shade. The tide was rising. TRACK 01 "When You Come," Crowded House INDEX: 00:00:00 TRACK 02 "Reptile," The Church INDEX: 04:43:15 TRACK 03 "Wash Off," Deerhunter INDEX: 09:37:63 TRACK 04 "Cocoon," Mark Sandman INDEX: 15:23:57 TRACK 05 "Everyday is Like Sunday," Morrissey INDEX: 19:32:71 TRACK 06 "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road," Keane INDEX: 23:05:47 TRACK 07 "A Day in the Life," The Beatles INDEX: 26:57:64 TRACK 08 "Big Log," Robert Plant INDEX: 31:51:05 TRACK 09 "Everywhen," Massive Attack INDEX: 36:53:39 TRACK 10 "Alphaville," Bryan Ferry INDEX: 44:29:59 TRACK 11 "Leave It Alone," Moist INDEX: 48:54:15 TRACK 12 "Pressed in a Book," The Shins INDEX: 53:19:14