‘It was my aunt’s birthday party. Do you not drink, Mr—’ I search for his registration badge. ‘Mr Ahmed Khalil, born 1.6.1986. You and me have the same year of birth, Ahmed, what’s your star sign?’
Ahmed laughs and looks at me; his dimples are even more prominent with the smile he holds after. ‘Do you believe in the stars?’
‘Why not? We’re all made of stardust. Have you heard that one before, Ahmed? After the Big Bang explosion and expansion, we were all born of the stuff of stars. Are you a Muslim? Am I allowed to ask?’
He nods. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Here,’ he says and takes a slip road to the highway, turning on his full headlights in the darkness.
‘You’re as much from here as I am.’
‘I’m an Australian citizen, Natalie Dillon. My mother is British Iranian. But I was born in Tunisia if that’s what you’re fishing for.’
‘I suppose it is. Do you miss your homeland?’
‘Here is my home,’ he says without a beat.
‘Do you not miss where you’re from, the weather and food and people? The understanding? I miss those things sometimes.’
‘I only live in the moment. I cannot be nostalgic for what was, when I appreciate what is.’
‘That’s beautiful, Ahmed,’ I say, wanting to touch his arm. ‘That statement was made of stardust. Definitely.’
He laughs. A big gorgeous laugh.
I smile but then feel an edge of nausea. Maybe it’s the new car clean leather smell or motion sickness from the alcohol in my system.
‘Can I tell you something private? Between us, taxi fare to driver.’
He nods.
‘I’m jealous of my aunt.’
‘Why?’
I inhale deeply through my nose and let it out. ‘Because she’s kind and beautiful and totally okay with the fact she’s imperfect. She has a lovely house and friends and she has overcome life or death stuff. She’s overcome actual problems. And she’s smart and can do yoga.’
‘Envious,’ he mutters.
‘Excuse me?’
‘That’s envious, not jealous. Jealous is when you think something you have may be taken from you.’
‘Okay, I’m envious so. Doesn’t make it much better? I love her but I feel crap about myself around her. She’s so good to me that it makes me feel even worse. Then I wonder if I like feeling bad about myself. That I’m addicted to it somehow and need a fix of it if things are going well. Need to mess things up. That’s destructive, isn’t it? I wish I could be more like her. Have her outlook. Her lifestyle.’ I raise my voice for effect. ‘And she’s sixty. She’s over twice my age.’
‘You’re in the business of counting other people’s blessings instead of your own.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘It’s something my mother says.’
He looks at me, his brown eyes sparkling. I feel a shockwave, somewhere deep inside, somewhere lower body I haven’t felt for a long time. The black sky is awash with stars, pinpoints of light twinkling, smiling down.
‘When did you come to Australia?’ he asks.
‘A few weeks ago but I go to New Zealand soon.’
‘And you’re from?’
‘Ireland.’
He whistles. ‘This Irish and alcohol.’
‘Yes, what a cliché I am tonight.’
‘Would you stay in Australia?’ His hand goes to the gear stick and I restrain myself from touching it. His fingernails are pale pink.
‘It’s a good country but I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing with my life, you see, Ahmed. Years ago, generations ago, I’d be a mother of eight by now, probably. I wouldn’t have time to be solipsistic.’
He eyes me, looks at my head, neck, chest, lingering there, and then goes back to my face, eyes. He locks eyes with me.
I fold my arms.
‘You’re pretty, star lady.’
I blush again but this time blood hums and tumbles down my body, making it warmer. ‘Thanks. I don’t see it at all,’ I say, bowing my head.
‘You might be a bit crazy too. It’s the alcohol. That isn’t good for the mind.’
‘It’s apparently called fun, Ahmed.’
‘I like you.’
I perk up in my seat. ‘But you don’t even know me. You know nothing about me.’
‘I know there’s electricity here.’ He waves at the space between us.
I can’t deny it. I desperately want to touch him. To touch his face. To strip his shirt off and hold myself against him. To stroke the skin on his back with the tips of my fingers. More.
We’re almost at Greenwoods. Ahmed dips his full lights as we pass some cars, and streetlamps begin to line the footpaths.
Bruce’s truck is parked outside his house.
‘Would you like to see me again?’ Ahmed asks.
I hesitate. ‘Are you married?’
‘What?’ He scratches his scalp.
‘Don’t Muslims marry young? And only marry other Muslims?’
‘No, Natalie. Not everything is set in stone. Muslims can marry Christians. People can live how they choose. I have citizenship. We could marry. You could live with me. I have this nice place, by the lagoon. Even for children it is a good place.’
‘Why are you proposing to me, Ahmed?’
‘Because I would like to sleep with you.’
He parks in front of 73.
I’m moved by his chivalry, or, at least, his honesty. ‘I have to go inside.’
‘Are you home alone?’
‘No. No,’ I say quickly. ‘I live with my aunt. And uncle. And three cousins. Irish builders. My brother, too, Keano. He’s home from the mines. He’s inside as well. The party will continue all night. We will keep drinking. Us Irish.’
Why have I lied? He hasn’t made me feel unsafe.
‘Will you take my card, give me a call, if you’d like to meet me?’
I take it from him without touching him.
‘My offer is authentic,’ he says as I pay the fare. ‘We could make it work.’
Dolores stews a pot of milk thistle tea and we watch wildlife documentaries until midday. She decides to go for a swim down in the communal area of the estate, to sort her head out.
‘Come on,’ she says. ‘It’ll be good for you.’
I groan.
‘Come on,’ she says. ‘You spend too much time indoors. Darwin’s brilliance is outdoors.’
‘I know but I get too sweaty, Dolores, I’m gross.’
‘Sweat is natural.’
I sigh. ‘Give me a minute to change.’ I tramp up the stairs.
Palm trees surround the kidney-shaped pool. I sit at the edge of a beach lounger. It’s muggy out, my T-shirt and sarong are damp. Dolores strips off, revealing a strapless vintage-style blue one-piece bathing suit with little white anchors printed on it. I look at her breasts, or lack thereof, and still can’t tell.
She dives a perfect arc into the pool.
‘You coming in? It’ll make you feel better for sure,’ Dolores shouts.
‘Yeah, I will, soon.’
Can I risk it? Most people would be at work. I can’t.
I realize I missed a patch when I shaved my legs. I grumble looking at it. I try plucking the hairs out with my nails but only end up breaking the nail on my middle finger.
‘Come on, Natalie,’ Dolores says. ‘It’s too hot to be out there.’
‘What if someone sees me?’ I look around again.
‘Why are you so afraid of being seen?’
I eventually undress, inspired by how much renewed energy Dolores has. I’m flubbery and uneven in my turquoise halter top and bikini shorts. I’m like something about to burst from the seams.
She cheers.
I pull my knees up tight, dive-bomb into the pool, hitting the water with my ass, and make a massive splash.
Dolores is laughing and splashes me back when I come up for air.
We float about for a while.