It’s hot again today. He doesn’t want to keep smoking his cigarette, especially since it’s at the same time every day. In the same place, looking out from the veranda down across the sloping front yard, half an acre to the road. No cars pass. Six or seven cows in the next property, heads down. The neighbour lives in a junk yard of dead cars, buses and tractors. Sometimes comes out, looks around, goes back in. Strange. He’s lived there five years and he’s never at the pub or in town. Of course if he was in town they wouldn’t recognise each other. He finishes the cigarette, didn’t smoke but half of it. The heat. Feels good to finish it. The sound of his feet moving from where he stands scrapes the air, each step again and again. He slides the door open and finds himself standing in the lounge room. Lets a sigh out, thinks about it, urges himself to move forward but stays in place, staring at a dining table chair. Looks at his feet, a big toe with black cotton under the nail from a sock, the others slightly curled under, a nail missing from the pinkie of the left foot, his steel capped boot pushed it off. Looks strange, the small curled up thing, trying to tuck under the other toes. He takes his hand and rubs his cock. It gets half hard after a while. Another sigh, doesn’t want to do it anymore.  A few images flash, tits, her, some porn bodies with legs open, their stupid young faces, acting. He goes into the kitchen, puts some stale bread in the toaster, presses them down and turns the jug on. A dry breathing sound come from the kettle, he takes it and puts water in. Stands there looking at the toaster and listening to the kettle. After half a minute he takes vegemite out of the cupboard and sets it on the counter. The toast pops up, soon the kettle boils. It doesn’t squeal like it should, it just turns off. He forgot to put a teabag into a mug, he takes the toast out and puts it on the table. In the fridge is the heart smart cholesterol reducing margarine that is too white. He doesn’t want it today. His heart hurts anyway. Puts vegemite on the toast and takes it to the lounge chair, sits and takes a bite. It’s bitter and strong and dry in the mouth. Hard to chew, small shards of toasts stick into his gums and the vegemite stings. He throws what’s left of the second piece into the fireplace, goes back to the kitchen to make the tea. The water boils fast and he pours it into the mug, waits not long enough for infusion and dumps a splash of milk in there. Soy milk. She left him with half a case of long life soy milk. ‘For your heart’ she said. He loved her for that, even though he didn’t want soy milk. Drinks it now because that’s what there is but every time he pours it, gets one out of the box or opens a new carton he has to suffer her caring face. Caring about his health. Caring about his belly, making sure he only has three ‘lite’ beers at night. He only realise he didn’t really care about drinking when she was around. How three lite beers even became too much. Pointless he said. She was happy to take care of him, to bring him back from the edge of alcoholism. She had met him after his divorce, six years after.

He had been drinking every day back then. Drinking until he was drunk. His children were old enough to not care. Old enough to not be affected. They left him to drink, saw him drunk, went away and smoked pot or went out or had sex or anything else teenagers do while he came home from the pub at 10 or 11 at night, sat in front of the TV sort of talking to someone. Someone who wasn’t there anymore. He was used to someone being there so he talked. It was only the TV that was on and anyway soon he fell asleep. A few times he tried to be a father. Show interest or say ‘I love you’ or just talk about what had happened. His kids were not interested. They thought ‘what is wrong with you?’ because they didn’t know about life or love. Or they thought they did and he was so far away from it. He gave them fifty dollars here and there. Love. He put more than that into poker machines. Sometimes getting a few hundred dollar wins. Sometimes drinking it back down again. There were friends at the bar. Other men who didn’t want to finish up their nights at home either. One guy told him how he watched porn and then when his dick was hard went in and fucked ‘his missus’. Laughing and slapping him on the back. Offered to give over some ‘porno tapes’ but he refused. There were old divorced women who had seen him around and came to the house for a couple of weeks. His children saw them, ignored them. Maybe once or twice had to suffer through a dinner or two. The teenagers one after the other left at different moments, the idea of the family home pretty soon became nothing. There were only memories and polaroids, hundreds of polaroids in a large black plastic bag. The sharp edges of polaroids ripping little holes all through the bag. A hard thing to keep. His ex-wife called and said she wanted the polaroids. He said he wanted some too. They didn’t want to sit together and go through them so it was roughly divided in two. They didn’t want each tiny snippet of life in their hands. They just knew they wanted them. Soon the house was sold and he disappeared. When the teenagers, his children, saw him again he was different. His eyes were different. He no longer wanted to die. It was because he met a new woman to live his life with. He wasn’t happy but he wasn’t drinking. He was their father.

He lived with a new family. Other kids had problems and he dealt with them with a new vigour. An external vigour. A type of blasé iron-fist he never had with his own children. It was the detachment that made it easier, perspective. He didn’t really care. That’s what it was. Instead the old dream of living away from the world, on a farm, in the country, on some land. That kept him going, pushing through a new job, waiting, his new wife telling him ‘soon’ and him able to persist on that word. It wasn’t that long. Five years until they bought the place. A small cottage, two bedrooms, a living area with a fireplace. Four acres of land, enough to grow trees and a vegetable garden. She just wanted the back part of the property for a flower garden. He thought about how nice it would be, she out the back planting beautiful flowers, him out the front picking fresh beans off a vine and eating them, Sun warmed produce from stem to mouth. He used to have a small patch in the backyard. Used to call his son and daughter over to let them taste a strawberry or open a pea pod to eat a real pea. They were sweeter than the frozen ones his son said. He was proud and thought of his father. Acres of land, too many vegetables that they gave to other families. Now instead he talks to his son who suggests they sell their tomatoes on the side of the road. His son having taken a job in marketing only now talks of making of money. Telling them that he pays tens of dollars for vine ripened tomatoes in the city and how they can sell these ‘admittedly non-certified but still amazing’ tomatoes to other suckers like him. He is proud of his son, asks questions about the idea, asks how much he can sell them for. They are talking again. His son has visited maybe three times in two years. He asks him to come but he says he is busy. He remembers how he said the same thing to his father. Even knowing that he will die, even knowing that that is what happens in life, he said and hears the words ‘I Am Busy’. But he has a place to live the way he wanted. He lives there alone during the week while his wife works in the city. She visits on the weekend and they spend time together in a new way. He is not lonely during the week. He is alive and well. He limits his drinking. Two or three glasses of wine at night now.

Four years pass, the same thing every week. He tends to the gardens, works casual shifts as a landscape gardener at local properties, she works her day job and comes for the weekend. Friday night until Sunday night. They make love in the mornings. They take a walk around the area, but, after three years she grows tired of the routine. He doesn’t understand, kept waiting for her to join him there full time. She tells him I don’t want to live there, ‘I now I told you I did but I don’t want to now’. Her oldest son just got married, they are planning a child. Her father died and her mother lives near her. Her only daughter is involved with a man who is abusing her. She has so many things she can’t escape from right now. He says it’s ok, he can wait. She says she can never move all the way out to the country. He says she can drive in and out whenever she wants. It is a fight and there is no compromise. He wants to be there. She wants to be near her kids. They are not his kids. They stop fighting about this. Sixteen months later she says she is not coming out to see him anymore. His children are ok, call from time to time to tell him how ok they are. He thinks ‘if only her fucking deadbeat children were as capable as mine’, thinks of his ex-wife. What did they do right? He asks himself, kind of a half joke. Doesn’t say this out loud to his new wife. They sleep together but don’t have sex in the morning. The routine.

On the veranda, sipping tea, the breeze coming up. It’s nice he thinks, nice to have her here. Sip some more tea. She says “I am not coming back out here anymore”. He stares out across the valley. “Eileen is having a baby, I want to be near her now”. He finishes his tea and tries not to feel that thing inside coming up to his throat. The second time. “I will come and see you then” he says, looks at her. She is older now, what he sees doesn’t match what he thought he’d see. “You…I don’t think it’s…going to work…”. “Why not? What’s wrong?”. “I don’t…I don’t want to…do this anymore…you are…not…I don’t know what do you want me today?”. “What do I want you to say? I want you to say ok. I want you to say ‘see you next week’”. “Yeah…yeah ok, see you next week then”. “Jesus. Am I that bad?”. “No no…it’s not that its just…I feel like we’re just so alone out here. I know its nice and I know you always wanted to live like this but…but I’ve got. My mum by herself now and my kids are starting families. I can’t, I don’t want to just let it all go right now”. “OK, well, lets just see what happens then, okay? I’m not stuck here or anything”. “Yes you are though! How long since you’ve been back to see anyone? Hm? A year, maybe sixteen moths? You’re just….here. And that’s fine if you want to but I can’t just keep living like this”. “Ok ok. I get it. Your kids. I know. I know what it’s like”. “Really? Because you never see them either. When did you last talk to Jenna? It’s like you’ve checked out”. “No…no I haven’t. I just don’t get to talk to them that’s all”. “And why not hm? Maybe because you’re all alone out here. Maybe because you’re absent? Maybe because you’ve got yourself so squirreled away and alone and happy that none of that other stuff even matters anymore”. “Of course it does”. “But you don’t care enough to change it, right?” Oh god god, I’m sorry. We shouldn’t talk about this now. I’ve go to go soon anyway.” “I’ve put your bags in the car”. “Thanks Jake, thanks.” “It’s ok”.

He doesn’t go anywhere. He tries to go, even goes to that station. Waits twenty minutes. The train station is a small cement block that rarely has an attendee. The tracks are rusty with a thing sliver of exposed metal where the twice a day passenger train and several times a day freight train runs through. Weeds grow all over the rails. It’s as if a train will never come, couldn’t come. There is an old wooden seat with enough pieces missing so you can’t sit down. He has a backpack on the seat. Not enough stuff packed he thinks. What doe she even need? Been too long sine he left the house. Ten more minutes pass, he takes the back and walk the forty seconds to the pub. Sits out the back and smokes a cigarette. Goes inside and gets a beer telling himself ‘ will hear the train coming a mile off. Then I’ll shoot down’. The train does come, he hears it mid way through a draught of beer. Hears the sound of it slowing and stopping. The air brakes hiss at the same time he puts the glass down. Shit he thinks. ‘Shit. What have I done? I have three hours to tell her I am not coming’. She will be waiting, she will have made plans, she would have told people, her family. She would have made dinner. She would have looked forward to seeing him back at their old house where they used to live together and be in the new type of love they had. The start of relationship, the familiar magnets on the fridge, the familiar soap in the bathroom, the way that the kitchen is laid out. His mind wanders over all those things. Things he is trying to care about but he is caring about them though her eyes. He goes inside and gets another beer. The second beer helps, all that stuff starts fading away. He knows it’s the beer but that doesn’t matter. Another cigarette, a few more long gulps, then another beer. Pretty soon he is up and walking back home. Looking around at the small town as if he was a visitor. The small old sandstone church which is now a bed and breakfast. The property owned by a young family who are finding it hard to travel one and a half hours to work each way and raise a kid. The drunk next door who he has to hear scream and beat his wife. Going home is a blessing, closing the door to all that is paradise. He picks up the phone, holds it in his hand, puts it back down. There’s time.

There’s a letter today with a hand written address. He recognises her hand writing with a kind of excitement and indifference. One part wants a love letter but its not his birthday for a month and the other doesn’t want to hear her voice in a letter. It’s not thick so its not a bank statement. He open it and takes out the folded sheet, lies it on the table. Stops being stupid and opens it and reads it;

Jake,

This is hard to write I want you to know. I just want to say I love you and care about you. I want you to know that what I am about to say is not about you. It’s about me and my life. I know who you are, you have never pretended or lied or anything. I know what you want. I know you love where you are. I know all this and that’s why I need to tell you that we can’t be together anymore. I can’t do this anymore. I want to be near my children. You can probably understand that. I don’t want to be away from them. I don’t want what you want right now. I’m sorry to write all this like this and tell you like this but I just can’t say this to you on the phone or in person. I’m sorry Jake. I do love you and I know you love me and even though we’re old now I just can’t do it. I can’t live there with you. And all these years waiting and trying just can’t make it for me anymore. I wanted to tell you like this. I want you to read it. I want you to know that we should both be happy and that I love you but can’t do what you want. Give my love to Alice and John. I loved knowing your children, they are really something special. I hope you can reconnect with them.

All my Love,

Katherine

Days go on. They keep coming, he keeps standing and moving around. He doesn’t call her, or at least, he only calls her and hangs up after two rings. One day she will pick up after one ring. He is not challenging her, he can only last two rings. He goes to his job, his boss tells him things and he does them or his boss tells him he is shit and he says fuck you and goes home. Returns the next day and says ‘let’s forget that and get to work’. He is sixty one now. No room for blasé ass kissing. Just time for getting on with life. He exchanges cigarettes for small cigars, doesn’t inhale. The night is cold and crisp and there are more stars than you could imagine, out there where there is no other light. He stands naked before the fire place sipping brandy. Looks down at his body, some things grey, some things sagging, but strong legs and arms. Strong breathe in and out. Another long sip from the snifter. A deep breath in and out. The heat in the nostrils feels good, the warmth in the belly feels good. The only lights is the twitching orange from the fire. The home is really a home, he is alone and content, the way a Buddhist monk is content with nothing. She left him. She left him. She left him. He could go back and live with her. She left him. He could sell this little property and go back and live with her. Her family, her children having children. He can only see her face and all the rest is a blur. After half a bottle or brandy he is swaying and telling himself  ‘fuck her kids, fuck her mum, fuck her grand kids’ and he knows it is finished. And drinking again.

Hard to work in winter. The ground is frozen. The leaves are everywhere. Half the day is racking them up and burning them. Nice smell leaves burning. He stands back with his hot tea and smokes a small cigar. Wee Willem are his favourite. Ten in a box for ten dollars. Lasts a few days. Clint Eastwood would be proud he thinks, remembering the ‘man with no name’ from The Good The Bad and The Ugly. Spaghetti westerns. Stories from when men were men. His father was a man. Got shot in world war two, a fireman and then a mayor. A hell of a man. The fire dies down, all smoke and flavour. He stubs the cigar out half way, puts it in his pocket. Walks around the garden, nothing to do. Walks down to the back paddock to check the fence. One of the cows has made a dent in the fence, trying to get it’s head through and eat the dandelions from the garden. Dumb things, just push and push as the metal fence both cuts into their neck and every now and then sends an electric pulse into their muscles. They mustn’t care anymore. They just take the shock now. Worth it to get to the sweet flowers they think. He looks into their eyes trying to see something. His daughter, a vegan or vegetarian always tells him to stop eating meat. He tries to work out what she is saying. They look back blankly, turn away and put their head back into a patch of clover. No way, he thinks, that you care about anything. He takes a shovel and tries to dig into the ground near the post. Wants to reset it and make the fence tighter. A few thrusts and he begins to cough, a few more thrusts and he needs to cough again. Puts the shovel down, wants to get this cough through. Damn winter. So cold. Only the brief intense heat of fire lately. He coughs hard until his face is hot and his. pulse is pumping into his head He looks down at the ground to see blood. Blood from his hard cough. He didn’t remember spitting. He didn’t spit. This is from the lungs.

A few more days pass. He works a bit lighter. He breathes deeply and stops smoking cigars. He goes back to a few lite beers a day. Feels better. Getting up is easier, getting through the day is easier, getting through the night is the problem. He tells himself to call a doctor. He tells himself he doesn’t need a doctor. He tells himself he is all alone now and needs to know that’s wrong. The alones wins. He call his doctor who is three hours away. “Hi there Doctor, how are you?’. Fine fine Mr Burnham. How are you?. “Good as always. I’m on the lite beer like you said”. “Good, good. Ok tell me, what’s the problem?”. “It’s well, ok, the other day I was out trying to dig a ditch for a fencepost and…I’ll tell you it was only 2 degrees out there…anyway so I was trying to clear some earth and then all of a sudden I had a coughing fit”. “You’re not still smoking are you?’. “No no no, just cigars now…but I don’t inhale”. “Good good. Okay, so why are we hear?”. “Ok doctor, ok, well, you see, halfway through the job, it was hard I mean getting a stump out of frozen earth might…anyway…I was doing it and then I just had to…cough, like, any normal guy. I had something in my chest and so I began coughing but couldn’t stop and when I was finished I spat blood out on the ground. My blood, right where I was digging”. “Ok so go ahead and take your shirt off for me. I want to listen to your chest”. He takes his top off, nervous, feels it himself, how hard it is to breathe, how sometimes he gets light headed and dizzy. Has to stand in the field sucking oxygen deep into his lungs. It takes about five minutes of this breathing to stop the dizziness. It takes a while to get the oxygen into the blood and then into the brain. He doesn’t tell the doctor this, he just breathes in and out like he was asked, the stethoscope touching lots of places in the front and back of his chest. Even he can feel the air catching on closed or dead mucus sacks, folded alveoli, limited lungs. He breaths through it, pretending that he can’t feel the bits and pieces stuck and opening places. “A deeper breathe for me please”. He breathes through it like he can pretend to a guy with a hearing device against his chest. “Ok Jake. We’re going to need some tests done ok. I can hear a lot of mucus in your lungs, I can hear how hard it is for you to take a breathe in. I want to rule out cancer or anything else. I want to know what’s it in there. When I get the tests back we can take it from there ok?”. “Okay”. ‘You think it could be cancer’ he thinks but doesn’t ask.

When the doctor calls he is outside working on the garden. The flowers in the back part of the house are dying. He waters them but that’s all. Sitting there on his knees is not for him. The idea of her doing that. Half of them are dead, the other half stand up so proud. They look like little defiant angels. He wants to keep those ones. Feels something for those ones. Like they are on his side. ‘What did he do so wrong?’ he thinks. He knows what it is. It is not wanting to live life. Not wanting to get involved with her kids. Doesn’t really care. He doesn’t even talk to his own kids, so he is supposed to care about these strangers? Not really strangers. He feels like calling and apologising. But why do it? Just so he can see her again. Have someone to hold his hand in front of the fire. That’s all it is. That’s why he doesn’t call. He comes back from outside, sees the red message light flashing on the phone. He forgets how to get the message. Used to have her to do that. His time he does call her. The phone only rings twice and his step daughter answers, cold says “I’ll get mum” and he is left waiting. She comes on the phone. “Hello Jake. How are you going?”. “Good, yeah, good, I’m okay. Listen I know this is, I know this is, um, oh god okay okay, I have a message here on the phone and…”. “You want to know how to hear it?”. “Yeah…”. “Ok when you hang up you press the message button, its labelled M S G. Then you’ll hear options. Its 1 to hear the message”. “Ok Kathy, thanks… thanks”. “It’s ok. Are you ok Jake, really?”. “Am I okay? Hah, well…I don’t know. I don’t think so”. “Oh Jake, you know you can call me whenever you want. Why don’t you come for dinner. Stay a few days?”. “Yeah. That would be god. I’m going to check the message. I’ll call you back okay?”. “OK Jake. We’re all okay over here too.”. “That’s good Kathy. Sorry. I…sorry”. “Talk to you soon Jake”. He hangs up, didn’t realise she would say things like that. He really just wanted to know how to get the message. Thoughts stir in his head but they seem so apart from him now. He looks back to the blinking red light. Presses the MSG button but nothing happens. Picks up the receiver, puts it to his ear and presses it again. A computer woman voice starts to talk and he presses 1:

Hi Jake, its Martin. Okay well I got your test results back and I wanted to talk about them with you. Look I don’t know when you’re going to be in next do I better let you know now. Okay so first you need to come back in, that’s the first thing. We need to talk about your results here and what we need to do next. I…uh…I should tell you of course that this is serious Jake. Okay…call me back as soon as you get this. I’m here until about seven tonight so. Call back. Okay, the number here is <rustling> its <rustling> okay it’s 5659 4341. Call me back.

It’s four thirteen so he can call. He doesn’t want to call. He doesn’t want to know right now. He gets a beer from the fridge, opens it, lights a small cigar and starts walking away from the house down the hill on the grass.

Six thirteen. Four beers finished. He had put the bottles in the recycling bin. Clean. Picks up the phone and dials 5 6 5 9 4 3 4 1. Its ringing and he swallows. Thinking about his body. Breathing in deep. Trying to feel what is wrong inside. Pre-empt the doctor. His lungs are heavy like always. His guts feel thick like always. Everything else feels normal. Its lungs and guts. That’s where any problems are. The ringing stops, a girl on the end saying “West Plains medical, how can I help you?”. “Hi, I ‘m returning a call to martin…um…doctor Alvarez?”. “And who shall I say is calling?”. “It’s Jake…uh Jake Burnham”. “Ok let me see”….waiting…”ok Mr Burnham, just hold a second, the doctor is with a patient”. He doesn’t get to say okay, the word is spoken to a sound of an electronic piano. He looks around the kitchen, over the sink and over the small surface his wife (ex-wife now?) used to cook on, the oven she used to bake quiches in, over to the lounge room, at night they’d sit, not talking, sit and watch the fire. Too many nights like that. He thinks what was so wrong with that? She wants to be with her children, okay, he understands but this nice quiet life. This is what they want. He relaxes thinking that he can wait for her. It won’t be long and he feels himself smile. “Jake! Hello Jake it’s Martin. You got my message then?.” “Yes I did…”. “Ok good. So Jake okay do you want to come in and discuss these results or…”. “Can you tell me now?”. “Yes, sure I can, yeah, sure. Okay. Jake, it’s not good, okay, you should know that”. “Ok, so what’s not good?”. “Ok so, you know we were checking for a lot of things. It’s a broad spectrum test but you know, you probably know what’s wrong, I mean, you can feel it already”. “Sort of. I mean, my lungs aren’t too good lately”. “No, no they’re not Jake. You’re right. You’re right it’s your lungs. It’s juts, it’s what happens you know, You smoked for what thirty or more years, I mean, you know what happens”. “Cancer?”. “It is cancer Jake. Yes. You have cancer. It’s in your left lung”. A few moments. He is waiting for the doctor to say something. He is waiting for himself inside to react. He is waiting for something that doesn’t come. “Jake?”. “I’m here”. “Ok Jake so what we need to do is get you to a specialist straight away, okay”. “Sure. Sure. How bad is it?”. “I don’t know right now. All I know is that it’s in your lungs. I don’t know how long you’ve had it, if it’s spread, how aggressive it is…all of that. We need to get you to a specialist as soon as possible”. “OK, so where do I go?”. “You don’t need to worry about that, Jake, don’t worry for now ok. We don’t know anything right now. Your tests showed positive for cancer cells, that’s all we know. I’m going to send you details of someone to talk to. I’m going to set up an appointment for you okay?”. “Okay”. “Stephanie will call you with details soon okay, tomorrow okay?”. “Ok…ok. I don’t…don’t know what to say…I mean…what do I do?”. “Nothing right now. We need to get the results over to the cancer ward at the hospital and you need to get over there to start talking treatment. Its early stages. Hopefully we can catch this quick. Okay? I don’t know what’s going to happen but if we act fast we can—” “It’s ok. I get it. I’m not a kid. Call me when you want me to do something. I’m hanging up now”. “Okay Jake o—”.

The local publican is an asshole. He doesn’t like what he does for a living, namely, serving beer to locals. He grew up and then worked in the city, he bought the quasi-country pub thinking he could build it up to be a real attraction. That failed because he is such an unlikeable human. Every small country pub needs character. Character is shaped by the owner and the way the locals feel. In this pub, it’s a prick and disgruntled patrons. Jake is sitting in the pool room with his sixth schooner. Half way though. Already played five games of pool. Won four lost one. He is drinking it down fast. Finishes it without anyone wanting another game. He is at the bar waiting or a beer. The asshole behind the bar pretends not to see him, continues talking to a couple of real country guys down the other end. Real country guys, hats, denim shirts, big and slow moving. Jake waits a while, the idea that he is dying swells up. “Hey, can I get a beer or what?!”. “Yeah ok Jake, coming okay” says the bartender. Shaking his head. “You don’t like money huh?” says Jake as the asshole walks over and starts pouring a Resches. “No I like money. I was just chatting to those gents down there”. “Gents?” That’ generous”. “Hey what did you say?” one of the ‘cowboys’ says. “Me? I said you’re not exactly high class gentlemen. I just want a fucking beer that’s all. Okay?”. “We’re not what?”. “Oh fuck off okay. I’m just getting a beer”. “Who the fuck you think you are!” the other country guy says, Jake ignores them, waits for his beer, gets it, hands over the four dollars twenty, walks outside to have a cigar. Cold air, no sound, just the low murmur from inside the pub. The thick smoke coming out, expanding across the night sky. Smelling an tasting lovely. He quickly thinks about how this made him get cancer. Looks down at the brown thing between his fingers, on fore. Fucking thing. Fucking asshole thing. Fuck you as he draws his hand up to his mouth, pulls in the smoke, lets it slip out though his lips. He didn’t in hale, he didn’t kill himself. Back in the bar there’s fifteen people in there. Mostly guys. One or two have their fat ugly wife’s with them. “Hey cowboy, want to play pool?” says Jake, “I’ll pay”. “Okay old man” he says getting up, his friend following like a sheep. They start the game. “Wow you’re really shit” Jake says, having fun, a bit drunk. “Oh yeah…watch this” the country guy says, misses. “Oh wow, okay so watch this. I’m going to teach you something. For free” says Jake, sinking a ball, then another, “this is for free” and sinks another one. “Want to bet who’s gonna win, huh. Two young guys kike you can beat me for sure”. “Ok old man, Fifty bucks we win”. “Fifty. How about a hundred, We’re even right now, We’ve both got three balls left. Huh? How about it?”. “Yeah ok. Get ready to pay up though, We live out at Banrock Station. We’re gonna get paid tonight right?”. “Yeah yeah sure, Your shot”. He tries again and misses. Jake plays the balls well. Sinks two and sets up the third. The big guy gets one in, is close with the second one. Jake taps their ball across onto the black ball and it slowly falls into the corner pocket. “What the fuck was that old man?”. “What do you mean? Pub rules”. “What the fuck you can; hit my ball”. “Yes I can. Pub rules too bad mate.”. “No no fuck pub rules. You can’t hit my ball”. “Yes I can. I can hit any ball on the table. Read the board.”. “Fuck the board you cheating cunt”. “Hey calm down mate, calm down. Now you know you lost so…give it up”. “Give up what you old cunt. I’m not giving you shit”. “Hey. Hey, We had a bet”. “Fuck we did. Fuck you and you’re fucking house rules”. “Okay if you want to be a little bitch about it…”. “What!?”. “If you want to be a pussy and not pay then….it’s up to you…but you know, don’t bother coming back in here because everyone will know you’re a little girl that’s all”. “Ah fuck off”. “No you fuck off. Can’t handle losing huh”. “Fuck off” And Jake doesn’t care anymore, swallows the rest of his beer, takes the glass over to this big guy and smashes it over his head. Blood comes out from his forehead and around his eye but he doesn’t feel it yet so the big guy hits Jake in the face hard and Jake goes down and then there are two of them kicking him in the face and chest and stomach saying ‘fuck you old man’ stuff and something inside makes them stop after a while because he has grey hair and is not moving, just taking the beating. “HEY JAKE! Get the fuck out of my bar!” the owner says. Jake starts to crawl away from them. The bar owner sort of helps by grabbing under his arms and when he is outside closes the door.

Outside it’s cool and fresh and quiet. He props himself up against the wall. Hard to breathe. Spits some blood out of his mouth. Feels his face. Swollen eye, fat lip. He starts coughing, really coughing hard, his lungs contracting an hurting, blood comes into his mouth, spits it out. It’s thick and looks black at night. Keeps coughing, can’t stop. There’s a fire in his chest, there’s a pain in his stomach. Someone comes out, “Are you ok?” he asks, lighting a cigarette. “I’ll be okay. Those fucking jerks….those fucking assholes” he says. “Yeah. Place isn’t the same anymore”. “Yeah”. He offers Jake a cigarette which he takes, still coughing, blood on his fingers and now on the cigarette. He tries to reach in his pocket but it hurts. The other guy leans down and turns his lighter on. Jake leans in and lights the cigarette. “Thanks” he says but starts coughing straight away, a deep chest cough, tastes a load of blood in his mouth. “Jesus” says the other guy, “are you ok?”. “No…no… I’m not” says Jake, inhaling and breathing out a plume. “I’m dying. My lungs. I don’t know.”. “Shit and you let those guys beat you”. “Fuck those guys. They kill an old man and so what. I’ve been here too long anyway”. “Well I live down the road. I’ve seen you around”. “Yeah?”. “Yeah”. And they just are there together, Jake takes one more pull of the cigarette, it hurts so he puts it out on the ground next to him. “I’ve got to go. Can you help me up?”. Jake walks away, the sound of the bar chatter, the sound of the guy who gave him a cigarette shuffling on the spot, the sound of his own feet scraping across the ground. The night is quiet, reverent. He is dying and he has made it worse.

It’ hard but he opens the front door, falls over his feet and lies in the landing. Laughs, it’s pathetic. Rolls onto his back, catches his breathe, feels the liquid in his lungs. Oh god, oh god, closes his eyes and prays. Please god please god don’t let me die like this. I love her, I love her so much. I need her. Please keep her safe and happy. I want her to be happy. I want her to come here and take care of me now. And he is trying not to cry and his can feel all the pain in his body and feel how old that body is. His face is swollen and his head hurts. They kicked him pretty good those young guys. Those stupid young guys. He breathes a few more breathes, reaches up and pulls the keys from the doorknob. Lies back down and waits for his chest to stop heaving. Coughs a few liquid things out over his body, doesn’t care if they make it outsole. He rolls over and kicks the door closed, knows her need to get up. A few more breathes, a few more closed eyed prayers to help him. Pleading. Never talked to god like this before. It seems to only thing to do. Help. Help he asks for. He gets up, first on hands and knees, he thinks ‘of course, of course this is how it should work’. And then gets up. His back and chest is on fire. His stomach  is bruised and his face feels like a bee stung pillow. Can’t go back now. Can’t o anywhere. He will go to the shower and stay there for a long tine and call her in the morning and ask her if he can come hone. Tell her everything.

Home. A type of home. In a large bed with fresh sheets and big soft pillows. Like a dying man should have. Bare feet under the covers. He stretches his body out and tries to take in the pleasure of being clean and under fresh sheets tucked in so meticulously. She comes in with a cup of tea and some toast with jam. She is the best nurse because she has both the attitude of a cold official caretaker thing and an underlying love and caring motif. “How are you feeling?” she asks. “Better”. “You know you don’t have to.,..”. “I want to. I’m so sorry. I should have told you. I was just….I don’t know what to say…I didn’t want…”. “Oh right. What did you think I would do? Just leave you out there?”.  “No…no. Come over here and lay down with me. I miss you”. So she comes and lies next to him but he feels her bristled tension, not relaxed. “What’s wrong?” he asks and she says “nothing….what do you want?”. “Nothing…I…I want you to…”. “Yes? Say it Jake. You never say it”. “I want you to…love…me”. “I do love you. But you never let me. You just wanted…oh god I don’t want to talk about it…you know, you know”. “Yes. I wanted to. I wanted to….” And he starts crying and he loves feeling it. Coming out, overwhelming him, the first time in a while he has been free, not stuck in his body, not worried about dying. “Oh Jake dear, oh my god why why why!….what is wrong with you?”. “I don’t know” he says, trying to stop crying but it gets harder and harder. “Oh god I don’t want to die like this I don’t want to die. I don’t care anymore I want to do it all…my children, oh god my beautiful children! And you , you, oh god what…what did I do.?”. “It’s okay Jake, it’s okay. Bill is coming over soon okay? He’s on his way he’ll be here Soon”. “Aaahh ok, ok. <breathes in and out> Ok that will be good. Sorry dear, sorry”. “Stop saying that. It’s ok”. “I love you. I thought about you every second”. “Oh Jake, oh god…I…I love you too…okay….stop this now, I can’t handle it okay” she says as her lip trembles and tears come. “I want you to know how much I love you right now. I never told you but I love you so much. I can’t do it without you, I can’t do this”. And he lets the tears come. They are pure and fulfilling. If he died now he would be happy, he told her how he feels. He had never properly told anyone that before.