I wake.

Melbourne.

My first day of work.

I walk to the shower.

I get in the shower.

I wonder if I should message Lisa.

I wonder if I should tell her about work.

I want her to think ‘he is fun’ but also ‘he understands responsibility’.

This will impress her.

She will tell her parents how perfect I am and they will invite me to dinner.

And I will be witty but not too witty.

Not wittier than her parents or even her siblings. (Does she have any?)

Like, I’ll check my wit at the door.

Half my wit: door-checked.

Or close to half.

For example, her dad will tell an anecdote about camping next to a man who is very buff and tan and oily.

He’ll say, ‘The guy was sitting in his chair sweating, dripping oil. It was hot and he looked like he needed to cool down. I tiptoed up behind him and poured a bucket of water over his head. He almost punched me.’

He’ll say this grinning.

Everyone will be grinning.

And I’ll say, ‘At the airport, a security officer said they needed to check my person and bag for bomb residue. I said, “Are you flirting with me?” He frowned and checked me twice.’

Everyone will grin a little bit, though not as much as before, and people will see that I can be funny, though they’ll understand I’ve held it back, restrained the funny.

People will nod at me while grinning.

At the end of dinner I will leave a little bit of food on my plate to show that I am grateful, and also that I am a responsible eater.

My grandpa used to do this.

My grandma would say, ‘Good God, Graham! Eat your bloody dinner.’

And he would smile and push his plate forward. ‘Thank you, I’ve had sufficient.’

After dinner, when we are on her front porch, or maybe (maybe!) in her old room, I will put my arm around her and say, ‘Me and you, Lisa, we’re two peas in a pod,’ while winking.

She will mishear me and say, ‘Two peas in an iPod? What?’

And I’ll laugh and say, ‘That’s right. Two peas in an iPod. That’s how special we are. Two peas in an iPod. Most people think it’s impossible —’

And she’ll cut me off and we will make out for a long time.

I turn the hot water off.

Let the cold water blast my face.

And dry myself.

I walk back to my room.

I imagine that we are old together, that we are two old people walking hand-in-hand somewhere.

I think: message Lisa.

No.

Message her after work.

Then you will have something to say.

I pick some clothes up off the floor.

And, getting dressed, I think: maybe that’s why I’m writing these memories about growing up in Texas.

To prove that I have something to say.