In the warehouse, industrial fans whir back and forth.

For some reason, today is hot.

Anna or maybe Kasey says, ‘What you smiling for?’

And I say, ‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘Nope.’

‘Shiiiiittttt, he met someone. I know that smile. That’s a loved-up smile. Shit.’

And I say, ‘Heh hee. Nah.’

Thinking about Lisa.

Imagining myself as an atom inside my own body, speeding up and running into shit more or less at random.

Imagining my atom self explaining to the shit I run into more or less at random that it’s okay to be excited.

YouTube makes me excited.

And, honestly, I just want to love someone in a way that it feels like we are each other’s favourite YouTube channels.

But I also want something way more than that.

Mother Hen is back, and she is showing me how to band.

This is a new skill I am learning.

How to put rubber bands onto KeepCups.

In the future I will include this on my résumé.

And in the reception of a large marketing firm I will be sitting with many people dressed in suits, waiting in silence for our chance to impress the boss, whose name will probably be Carl.

To secure our future.

The secretary will say, ‘Oliver, Carl is ready to see you,’ and two people will rise.

We will look at each other with narrowed eyes but return our faces to the secretary with shit-eating grins.

At exactly the same time we will both say, ‘Which Oliver?’

And the secretary will lick her thumb and flick through a résumé before saying, ‘The one who knows how to band.’

The other Oliver will sit, and I will light a cigarette.

Like, right in front of the secretary and the many other people dressed in suits.

And I will tip my hat while winking and say, ‘Boys,’ before walking into Carl’s office.

Carl will go to stand but I will say, ‘Carl. Please.’

Ashing into his potplant.

Inhaling, blowing smoke at the ceiling before saying, ‘Carl, let’s talk numbers.’

Mother Hen is holding a KeepCup by its lid and putting the rubber band around its base.

Mother Hen says, ‘You sort of just slide your finger in a three-sixty beneath the band and push it to the top of the cup.’

I say, ‘Okay.’

She pushes the band to the top of the cup.

And I say, ‘Nice.’

Mother Hen shows me how to tape my fingers to protect them from the rubber bands that will pull my flesh and nails from my fingers.

I suggest doubling up on tape.

Mother Hen says, ‘I did that once, but the tape fell off.’

I say, ‘Maybe it’s like condoms.’

And Mother Hen says, ‘What?’

I say, ‘Like when you double up on condoms and they rub together and break.’

And Mother Hen says, ‘Yeah, probably.’

The industrial fan blows hot air onto our faces.

It tastes like dust.

Or something else I can’t think of.

I push a band around a KeepCup and it slides up smoothly.

I put the KeepCup with the band around it into a box and grab another.

I say, ‘What did you do before this job?’

Mother Hen slides a band around a KeepCup and I imagine a python sliding around someone’s legs, up their body, and around their throat.

Choking them.

Choking them but then winking and saying, ‘Just kidding.’

Mother Hen says, ‘I used to be a cleaner.’

I say, ‘Like, in people’s houses?’

And Mother Hen says, ‘In office buildings.’

I think of people as vacuum cleaners moving down the corridors of large ANZ office buildings, descending one hundred stories every night and then stopping.

Mother Hen says, ‘I really loved that job — I mean, it was a good job.’

I say, ‘How come you stopped?’

And Mother Hen says, ‘I couldn’t do the hours anymore.’

We slide bands around cups.

I wonder if Mother Hen has a partner hen.

A Father/Mother/Intersex Hen who loves the purple bags beneath her red eyes.

Who, on his/her/intersex lunchbreaks, sits in a park eating chocolate almonds and missing the shit out of her.

Just sitting somewhere, imagining their arms wrapped around each other.

Feeling good.

Feeling good about the future.

Holding together.

Two people holding together with their eyes closed, not thinking about anything for a while.

The Australian dream.

For the next two hours, Mother Hen and I fill boxes with banded cups.

And eventually I walk towards the toilets, entertaining the idea that vacuum cleaners are black holes and that one day I will wake up in my bed a tiny version of myself, similar in size to a speck of dust, and I will embark on a great journey towards the lounge room, ending somewhere near the couch, a high-traffic vacuum area, and I’ll lie on my back totally and completely accepting that one day I’ll be sucked up, that me and my memories will be thrown out with everyone else and their memories.

And that’ll be it.

Everything: all over.

Goodbye.