Mick told me to take the box of lids to Mel and she’d show me how to do them, but I’m looking around and I have no idea who Mel is.

In high school in Brisbane, I knew a Mel. I remember asking her out to the movies because I’d heard she’d kissed a lot of boys and I hadn’t kissed anyone, and we saw some movie with Adam Sandler in it, and at one point I wanted to hold her hand but my hand was really sweaty so I didn’t hold her hand — I just sat there watching Adam Sandler — and afterwards, surrounded by skaters and people waiting for the bus, she said, ‘Well, see you soon,’ and I said, ‘Yeah, probably tomorrow,’ and she said, ‘But tomorrow is Saturday,’ and I said, ‘Oh, well, like, I mean, we could …’ and she said, ‘I gotta go’ — sort of standing there waiting for me to do something — and as her bus came I said, ‘Wait,’ and she turned around and I gave her a high-five.

The song changes or maybe stays the same.

I see someone who might be Mel and I walk towards her.

I think: I should walk towards maybe Mel more confidently.

I think: people like it when people do things confidently.

I walk towards the person who might be Mel and think: just say, ‘Hey, Mel.’

But, like, confidently.

Just be like, ‘Yo Mel, we’re working together.’

When I get to maybe Mel, I say, ‘Yo Mel, we’re working together.’

And she says, ‘What?’

And I grin.

She says, ‘Because you’re the man and I’m the woman you think you can tell me what to do?’

And I say, ‘No.’

She says, ‘Because you’re the man you think you can call me Mel even though my name’s Kasey?’

And I say, ‘Sorry, Kasey.’

She says, ‘What’s my name?’

And I say, ‘Kasey.’

She says, ‘Fuck oath, my name’s Kasey.’

And I say, ‘Sorry, Kasey.’

She says, ‘Relax, I’m just fucking with you.’

Mother Hen is raising her hand. ‘Over here.’

And I think: Mel is Mother Hen.

I can remember that.

They both have Ms.

I say, ‘Hey.’

Mother Hen says, ‘Hey.’

I look at Mother Hen.

Her face is wrinkled and she seems nervous.

She’s sweating even though it’s not hot.

Mother Hen says, ‘So, how we do the lids is we grab a lid and push it down onto the cup.’

I say, ‘Oh, okay.’

I watch Mother Hen demonstrate how to push a lid down onto a cup.

She says, ‘Do you want to try?’

And I say, ‘Okay.’

I push a lid down onto a cup.

She says, ‘Good.’

And I smile.

And, pushing lids onto cups, I imagine that Mother Hen is actually my mother.

That on a dirty coffee table in a small house on the outskirts of suburbia somewhere we are eating microwaved dinners and smiling.

That we eat honey-glazed carrots while watching Neighbours and afterwards we have home-brand ice-cream with canned peaches.

That we play this game where we write down our goals and show them to each other, and on her paper it says ‘Go to Disneyland’ and on my paper it says ‘Get over one hundred likes for a short story on Facebook’, and neither of us can tell if the other is joking.

We push lids onto cups.

I say, ‘How long have you worked here?’

And Mother Hen says, ‘About a year.’

I say, ‘Do you like it?’

And she says, ‘Yeah. You build up calluses.’

I say, ‘Like when you play the guitar.’

And she says, ‘Oh, do you play the guitar?’

And I say, ‘Not really. Do you?’

And she says, ‘Not really. I mean, I did. A long time ago.’

I say, ‘I’d like to hear you play the guitar.’

And she laughs loudly.

I say, ‘I mean it.’

And the song changes, or maybe doesn’t.

And we push lids onto cups.

We throw them into boxes filled with other lids that have been pushed onto other cups.

And Mother Hen says, ‘Is it hot in here?’

And I say, ‘Yeah.’

Because sometimes you have to lie.

I think.