Sunday Night

I’m on my way home from Sunday night roast at Gina and Scott’s. We leave when Roddick is two sets down with sweat dripping from the peak of his cap. Federer’s hair is barely damp, Gina’s already gone to bed and we sense the match is probably over. Tomorrow, though, I anticipate disappointment. He won? Well, at least he won.

Kurt doesn’t know who Roddick is, and earlier we had to describe him in less than ten single words: young, frat boy-ish, skater-ish, Playstation, gutsy, Mandy Moore, dude. We forgive Kurt because he’s been in Timor.

As I turn into my street the street lights are out and the soundtrack is the late night electronic music show, soothing and repetitive. A cat darts from beneath a parked car and I see its white feet first before the rest of its black coat is formed in the headlights. I get out of the car and a small white flashing light comes silently down the street towards me. Cyclist. The city feels clear and still and silent.

I know the smell of the smoke from their Singleton wood fire will still be on these clothes and in my hair tomorrow morning.