Rita is well ahead of Vic, Michael is still on the other side of the street keeping his distance. The sky is black and the comet is a ball of flaming light in the sky. It’s the first thing she sees when she finally turns, and she stands staring at it in the dirt street, with her cheeks still burning and her eyes still stinging. She knows she’s as bright with the desire to live as that comet. It’s big, and bold, and reckless, and she’d rather blaze across the sky for one summer only, than spend a lifetime of summers trailing after a drunken Vic and slowly dying. She runs her fingers down the soft, black material of her dress. She’ll wear this dress again. But not in this backwater of a street where it’s a crime to want to look good and everybody looks at you sideways if you try.
It’s then she lowers her eyes to Vic plodding up the street, one of the tailor-made, cork-tipped cigarettes that he keeps for social outings in his mouth, and she rehearses what she’ll tell him.
I’ve had you Vic. I’ve had enough. In fact, I’d had enough years ago. I just stuck around hoping things would get better, but they only got worse. So you can do what you like from now on. You can stuff your own life up all you like because I’m going. And why not? Everything has gone. The love, yes remember that? Well it’s gone. You wore me down, Vic. And I never thought I’d live to say it, but it’s gone. It’s really gone.
But there’s no point telling you now. You’re too drunk to take it in. And even if you do, you won’t remember in the morning anyway. I’ll wait till you’ve slept it off. Till you’re sitting down in the kitchen like you always do, staring down into your teacup with that bloody spoon going round and round. Then, I’ll tell you. Vic, I’ll say. Why couldn’t you see it coming? Why? Because I’ve had enough for years now. I’ve had enough of spending my life trailing after some drunken bloody fool who imagines he’s the bloody Michelangelo of engine driving. I’ve had it up to here. They’re just bloody engines Vic. They’re just bloody trains. And it’s just a bloody job. But the whole thing, it all means more to you than I do, doesn’t it Vic? It must. And that’s why I’m going. That and the grog and the stupid bloody things you do just when we could have a good night. I’ll tell you all that in the morning, Vic. But not before. I’d be wasting my breath.
Tonight there is nothing left to say and she turns away from Vic, away from the long, swaying grass of the paddock they’d all stood staring into only a few hours before, and she walks back towards the golf-course end of the street, the white gums growing bolder with every step.