I like writing in the mornings.

It’s just one way you can be successful before leaving the house.

My alarm was set for seven a.m. but I wake at 6.59, which means I have beaten time.

My back is sore.

I think: with my first paycheck I’m going to buy a bed.

At the moment my bed’s a futon without a base and with lumps.

I like the idea of getting ‘into’ bed rather than falling down to bed.

I like the idea of waking up from a high place and greeting the day from there.

I open my MacBook and write a memory about being thirteen and going to New Orleans during Mardi Gras when we didn’t know it was Mardi Gras.

The more I write the more I realise that when I was with my family I was generally in a good place.

Like, generally, I felt good.

I put on some shorts and walk out of my room and down the hallway.

In the lounge room, Mark is staring at the deactivated mousetrap and frowning.

He hasn’t seen me yet and I’m thinking about dropping to my knees and crawling slowly towards him.

I used to do this when we lived in Brisbane, which is where we moved to after Texas and after Canberra.

My parents ran a bed and breakfast, and whenever Brigitte or Bear were studying I would drop to my knees and crawl very slowly towards them, pretending to be invisible.

They would say, ‘Oliver, what are you doing?’

And I would keep crawling.

They would say, ‘Oliver, you’re an idiot.’

And I would keep crawling.

Slowing my pace as I rounded the corner of the desk.

They would say, ‘Oliver, I’m trying to —’

And I would say, ‘Ahhh!’

Then begin singing, ‘Iiiiiiiii ammm theee chammmpiooooonnnn. Noooooo tiiiiiiiimeeeee foooorrrrr …’ except I would replace the word ‘losers’ with either Bear’s name or Brigitte’s name, and I would sing this chorus three or four times or until they would begin screaming Mum or Dad’s name, which would make everyone angry, especially the guests, who were usually trying to sleep.

Mark sees me and says, ‘Fucking unbelievable.’

And I say, ‘What is?’

Dropping to my knees and crawling slowly towards him, while his back is turned.

Mark says, ‘These fucking traps go off every night but I never catch the fucking mouse.’

He throws the mousetrap on the floor and it goes thud.

I stop crawling.

Mark says, ‘What are you doing?’

And I think: what am I doing?

I pretend to search for something.

I say, ‘I dropped something.’

Staring intensely at a patch of carpet.

I say, ‘Found it.’

‘Found what?’

‘A contact.’

‘You don’t wear contacts.’

‘Yeah — I mean, I just tried one on.’

‘One of mine?’

I shake my head.

He squints.

The windows are open and he’s rugged up in a jacket and scarf.

It’s the middle of winter and our windows are open because we have no fridge.

In the cupboards there’s milk and soy milk and Mark’s sausages and steak and chicken breast and my leftover Gladwrapped lentil soup and Sofia’s leftover Gladwrapped lasagna.

And Mark is standing in the middle of all this wearing a pair of Christmas mittens that his grandmother sent him for Christmas, pointing at me and saying, ‘Stay the fuck out of my room.’

Every day Mark comes home and drinks three beers and watches movies on his laptop.

Sometimes I want to hug him.

Because physical contact can be good sometimes.

Like, I think they’ve done studies on that.

That regular physical contact or hugs can make you feel better about life.

But physical contact can also be bad sometimes.

Like if you’re sitting three to a park bench and everyone’s knees are touching because you are really close and one person gets up and two people’s knees are touching.

And, also, other things.

Mark says, ‘When can you afford to put in for a fridge?’

And I say, ‘Next week.’

Mark says, ‘Because I’m sick of this shit.’

I tell Mark I’m going to have a shower.

He says nothing so I walk back to my room to get my towel.

I check my iPhone to see if Lisa has written back but she hasn’t.

On Tumblr someone has reblogged a photo from the Wantagh Memorial Congregational Church, and the photo is of their sign that says ‘Live So Fully That Westboro Baptist Church Will Picket Your Funeral’.

And before I get in the shower I imagine lying on my bed and showing this to Lisa.

And the two of us being in my room, just talking about the most spectacular way we could die while laughing, and coming up with being old but not extremely old, maybe around sixty-five or seventy, dying together from some stray meteorite fragments that don’t break up in our atmosphere, that strike us down on some mountain in Mongolia while we are hiking and holding hands, and stopping to kiss and hiking some more and then dying.