At Kings Cross station, I take the city loop to Circular Quay.

From Circular Quay, I walk towards the water and stare at the Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Opera House.

I check the time.

It’s 4.30 p.m.

One and a half hours till I read.

I think: you’ve got nowhere to go.

Relax.

Okay.

I will.

I sit on the grass.

I feel like a beer.

Not far away, two Americans take photos of each other with the harbour in the background.

I know they’re American because I can hear them talk.

The fatter one says, ‘Bro, this shit’s crazy.’

And the skinnier one says, ‘Hahaha, fucking A. Shit’s like a dream, bro.’

I watch the fatter one get photographed first.

He crosses his arms and doesn’t smile and stares at the camera like he’s trying to intimidate it.

Like a wrestler or something.

Then the other one goes.

He makes his fingers into a gun and starts shooting the camera.

It seems terrifying.

I read over my stories.

I think: hmm.

They’re boring.

No they’re not.

Try not to care.

Okay.

Fuck.

The fatter American walks over and says, ‘Dude, could you take our photo?’

And I say, ‘Sure.’

He holds out his camera and I take it.

The fatter American says, ‘Shit’s gnarly, dude. So clear and blue and sparkly and shit.’

Pointing at the water.

He says, ‘Man, back in Texas, we got this fucking place in Galveston. Such a piece of shit, dude — just, like, seaweed and trash … Guys die from swimming in that shit.’

And the skinnier American says, ‘Ain’t nobody died from swimming in that.’

And the fatter American says, ‘Fuck yeah, dude. That guy from our church, he swam in that shit — was, like, dared to or something. Got some poisoning and fucking died, man.’

And the skinnier American says, ‘Nah. He had, like, cancer or something.’

And the fatter American says, ‘Oh yeah … Still, I remember our church taking that trip to Galveston and he swam, dude. Alls I’m saying.’

The two Americans stand with their arms around each other and the harbour is behind them and with their free arms they are flexing and the sun is hitting their muscles and I think about this time when I was growing up in Texas and how as part of school basketball we had to go to the gym to lift weights and how I could barely lift the bench press bar and how one time it was falling on me and as I took its weight the guy spotting me just kept looking down and smirking and he bent his knees and rested his balls on my forehead.

I take the photo and say, ‘There you go.’

The fatter American says, ‘Thanks, bro.’

And I give back the camera.

I start to walk away.

The fatter American says, ‘Yo, hang on. You know of any places to go out to tonight? We wanna meet some girls, bro. So fucking horny.’

And the skinnier American says, ‘Yeah, this other guy told us about Oxford Street but I looked it up — that place is for faggots, man. Almost wanted to find the guy and beat his ass. Thinking we’re queer and shit.’

And I shake my head because I don’t know what to say.

I say, ‘I don’t know.’

Feeling like a coward.

And the sun is bright.

And I sneeze.

And the fatter American says, ‘God bless you, man.’

And they walk away.

I look at the Opera House, at the seagulls flying above it.

And next to me there is an elderly couple.

They are trying to stare at Luna Park, shielding their eyes from the sun.