2.

Pink flashing lights. Riding through the city, late night. Fluorescent tubes flicking on a show. feet resting on the door, hand lying in someone else's. Grey T-shirt, black shoes. Silence is calming, all the words of the hot day have been scorched out of stuffy air. So we sit and watch, then drive. Who knows where we will end up but it feels right, this new direction heading to where the sun should meet us. Its too early now but out there the gulls will start flying to wake rangi up and in a few hours their wings will be tipped with gold. Their cries will annoy the Devonport goers holding wobbly umbrellas. In the city that is an Isthmus, it will always, maybe, not rain. Over the Wopwops the wind comes. Westerly. The darkness suffocates the sound it makes. Even though there are no clouds the stars have disappeared. Twinkling eyes replace the refraction in the sky. None of that matters right now though. To a teenager in a car, with her eyes heavy with everything shes seen, with her legs stretched as far as the polo will allow, with an imagination running wild.