When I get home, Mark is in the lounge room plugging in the vacuum cleaner and telling me not to use his toothbrush when I clean the mould from the bottom of the shower.

Mark says, ‘I’ve drawn up a roster and assigned you to the bathroom and I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t use my toothbrush to clean the mould.’

I say, ‘Oh, okay, because I was going to use your toothbrush, but if you don’t want me to, I won’t.’

Mark says, ‘Wait, are you serious?’

His eyes are wide and he is frozen.

He looks like he is acting out the moment when someone is watching a horror movie and pauses at a critical juncture to get a glass of water.

And I’m not sure whether to push it.

Undecided if the joke will materialise if I push harder.

But I decide to go for it.

Because I’ve already committed.

I say, ‘Wait, which one is yours?’

And Mark says, ‘Which what?’

I say, ‘Toothbrush. Which toothbrush is yours?’

And Mark says, ‘The green one.’

Slowly.

And I say, ‘Wait, didn’t I throw that out?’

Equally slowly.

Mark says, ‘Why the fuck would you throw out my toothbrush?’

Sort of yelling.

And I say, ‘Oh. Because, umm, that’s the one I used to clean the mould from, umm, the toilet last week.’

Mark is breathing heavily now.

I say, ‘Thought I threw it out …’

And it looks like Mark is trying to say something but can’t.

Instead he’s going very red and trembling a little.

And I think: do I finish?

Last week I bought the book Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff (And It’s All Small Stuff) from a garage sale for one dollar.

It seemed like a bargain.

One dollar for happiness.

I pick the book up and hand it to Mark.

I say, ‘Well, I guess, sorry, but, like, don’t sweat the small stuff.’

And then I wink and say, ‘And it’s all small stuff.’

There’s a moment of silence, and then Mark slams his foot down on the vacuum cleaner’s power button and the vacuum goes VRRRRRRR, and above the noise he says, ‘You’re a fucking arsehole.’

He vacuums aggressively across the carpet towards my feet, and when he hits my feet he says, ‘Move.’

I move.

He does it again.

And I move again.

We are dancing.

And I wonder how long we could keep it up for.

Like, could we move back and forth, Mark with his vacuum and me leading, all the way out of the house, down the steps, and onto a tram?

Could we vacuum-walk our way to Southern Cross Station, to the airport, and onto a plane going somewhere?

I picture the montage, the director staring at us through our lounge-room window, saying, ‘Yes’ and ‘Wait’ and ‘Now!’, his assistant pressing play to ‘Alone Time’ by Explosions in the Sky and us moving down the hallway in half time, almost waltzing, with overly mean expressions, and then outside, large gusts of wind blowing leaves down around us like rain, with a freeze-frame of an old man staring at us with no expression, and this long shot of the tram coming, and with the song peaking I turn around and we are running, sprinting diagonally down the road towards the tram stop, with my hands in the air and me half-smiling, and with Mark’s face strained in a half-grimace, his vacuum cleaner held out in front like a spear.

The opening scene to the spin-off movie of our lives where we embark on a journey as one type of person and return as another.

Bettered and changed by our experiences.

Impregnated by existence.

Mark says, ‘You’re a child.’

He walks to the hallway and begins vacuuming.

And there’s nothing left for me to do but to go to the bathroom and clean the mould from the shower floor, not using Mark’s toothbrush.

There’s a lot of mould.

It takes me a long time.