When enduring something terrible, the drive for escape is strong. When escape is not an option, this feeling of inner turmoil, of pent up, adrenalin fuelled, impotent action must be the best our bodies can do.

‘So, yeah, I haven’t had it diagnosed or anything, but you just know your own body don’t you. Since cutting out gluten I have literally, never felt better.’

If the next bus that comes along isn’t mine, I’m stepping out in front of it. ‘That’s great Georgia.’ If she circles back to her bowel movements, I will have no choice but to throw her in front of one. When did this become okay? When did society give the big tick to discuss our innermost workings in public places with near strangers? It’s gotta be social media's fault somehow.

‘My flatmate’s Vegan, I’ve been thinking about-.’

Oh, hell no. ‘Go to go, this is my bus. See you Monday.’ I launch myself toward the door of the still moving vehicle. I escape into the sweaty stranger packed, fart box that will be my freedom.

I stumble down the aisle as the bus swings back into traffic. I spot an empty seat, middle of the bus, this must be my penance for the twenty minutes with Georgia. I slide in, tuck my bag on the seat beside me and relax, my personal space respected. Only two stops later though my brief triumph is over.

Three people have just climbed on, the only empty seat on the bus is the one beside me. I lift my bag into my lap and shimmy toward the window, then I watch the three as they move through the bus, making my personal, hopeful selection, crossing my fingers it will be anyone but the homeless guy who joins me. No surprises though, I’m shoulder to shoulder with an unwashed man a few moments later. I slide a little further over, I’m hard up against the window, but the man beside me takes this as an opportunity to stretch out a little more. I’ve made zero ground. I’ve been breathing through my mouth since he sat down as I’m often forced to do on my commute, but I risk a few breaths through my nose now. All I can smell is stale cigarette smoke, the persistent, remnant odour your couch gives off after a solid ten years of smoking inside. It’s comforting.

I’m being unkind to this man, assuming the worse, distancing myself from one of society's less fortunate; where the hell is my empathy. He may have a story that would shock me, that would tug at my heart strings. He must have people who love him, what if someone I love ended up in his position one day? I know I’d want people to be kind. I ease off the pressure on the window sill and force myself to relax as much as anyone can when they're trying to force it.

I’m only a few stops from home when that tiny buzz of relaxation I’ve managed to conjure flees with haste. The man next to me has begun to breathe heavily, it’s raspy and laboured and it first I’m concerned for his health. Then he wriggles beside me, plunges his hand into his pocket – elbowing me in the process – and begins fossicking around in there. The heavy breathing and the movement of the hand in his pocket makes my one-sided, digestive conversation with Georgia seem like a night out on the town; I’ve reached new heights of discomfort and I’m feeling the dizziness to prove it. The pocket motion becomes increasingly ferocious, the heavy breathing follows suit, my anxiety reaches a crescendo and I’m worried I’m going to need to leap out of my seat and scale the heads of the people in front of me at any moment. Should I just scream? Would that be an acceptable response right now? Surely it-. Ouch! I take another painful elbow to the ribs as the man retrieves his hand from his pocket. He pops a peppermint in his mouth. ‘Oh.’ He plunges the hand back in – another damn elbow – and retrieves the tube of mints. ‘You want one?’

‘No thank you.’ I squeak.

As I walk the few blocks from bus stop to home I’m thinking about work. It’s hard to leave it at the office, hard to shut it off. What I wouldn’t give for a weekend where it didn’t enter my mind. What’s it doing to me to have these sorts of things pop in and out of my mind like a grocery list? What I wouldn’t give to think about taxes or some shit. Boredom; boredom would be great, if thoughts of my work ever begin to bore me I know I’m in serious trouble. I’m thinking about this as I round the final corner and catch sight of my house. Sitting in the driveway is a white car.

I get a little closer and I can see there is someone sitting in the driver’s seat. I can’t make out any features but the shaded figure is unmistakably male. I walk around the side of the car, coming to a stop at this stranger’s door. I don’t think I know him, maybe I should be nervous, but even in this poor light, he doesn’t look threatening. Besides, I reason, if he meant me harm he’d have been far better served to wait in the bushes. He sees me approaching and swings the car door open, almost clipping my leg in the process; I jump back and out of the way, he doesn’t apologise. He climbs out of the car and shuts the door behind him and pats his pocket, checking something is there. When he’s reassured, he smiles, then steps toward me with familiarity as though we’re old friends. That’s when it hits me: we are old friends.

‘Em, it’s so good to see you.’ He takes a further step forward and I take another back, automatically maintaining the distance between us. He pauses, my discomfort seems to surprise him and I realise that he might have been intending to lean in and hug me. I’m not a huggy person, an old friend should remember these things.

‘Josh,’ I say with genuine disbelief as I throw open my hands – that’s as far as I’m willing to go. My gesture has a dual purpose, it encompasses my wonderment at what he could possibly be doing in my front yard and further solidifies that distance between us. I really don’t want a hug. ‘It’s been a long time.’

He laughs, ‘Yeah, it has. God, it must have been what, fifteen years?’

‘Fourteen,’ I say. I feel so old when I hear this enormous number come out of my mouth.

‘Wow,’ Josh says. He puts his hands on his hips and leans back against his car. Is he waiting for something? I know I am; I want to know what he’s doing here.

‘Oh, do you wanna come in?’ I ask, my manners recalled

‘That’d be great,’ he says, smiling, but the enthusiasm feels a little forced to me.

Once we’re inside I turn on some lights and retreat to the safety of the kitchen because I need to take a few minutes to collect myself. I shout, ‘You want a coffee?’

‘Yeah, I’d love one, thanks.’

I set to work and my mind starts theorising – I can’t help it, it’s a go to. Invitation to a school reunion? An email would suffice. Just in town and wanting to stop by for a visit? How the hell does he even know where I live? I’m hardly going to get anywhere in my own head so I shut it down; I just need to get out there and hear his explanation. I’ll use this time instead, as I wait for the water, to muster a little calm. There are long suppressed memories fighting their way into my mind right now and it’s going to be hard to carry a conversation if I don’t first get them under control.

When the coffee and my resolve is prepared, I emerge from my kitchen with both. I slide his cup onto the dining table in front of him and take the seat directly opposite, hands clutched around the warmth of the mug. I don’t take a sip, instead, I fix him with a look that reads cut to the chase because I’ve already used up my awkwardness tolerance quota sometime around lunchtime today.

‘You know, you haven’t changed a bit,’ he tells me. ‘I really don’t think you’ve aged a day since you were eighteen.’ I smile and hold back the urge to say, neither have you because I’d be lying. Josh looks older, hardened, he looks as though he’s lived a demanding life, one that’s taken things from him. Not surprisingly though, it seems to have contributed some as well though. He has an air of success, maturity, wisdom, and though he looks equally as different as I apparently do similar, I can still see that good-looking kid who thought he could charm his way out of any kind of trouble. The kid who had plenty of opportunities to test that theory out.

‘You really do look great Em; are you happy?’

What a whopper of a question. It’s way deeper than I’d planned on going and unnaturally soon in the conversation. ‘Um.’ Is all I can squeeze out before he seems to realise these things himself.

‘Do you own this place?’ He asks, looking around. What he’s really doing is giving me an out, I appreciate it.

‘No, it’s a rental.’

‘Do you live alone?’

‘No, I have flatmates.’

‘Are they home?’

‘Ah, I don’t think so.’ His questions are beginning to worry me. Does he do a spot of murder on the side?

‘When was the last time you heard from Tara,’ he asks next and the veil is lifted; my vision is twenty-twenty now. What was I thinking? It was always going to be Tara.

‘You’re a Cop now, right? I heard that from someone, probably my dad. You work in Dunedin, or somewhere down south.’ I’m not deflecting, I have the sense it’s relevant.

‘I am. I’m a detective right here in Auckland actually, I’ve been here for five years or so.’ This last bit isn’t without apology. We’ve been living in the same city for five years and he’s only finally reaching out to me because Tara needs something.

‘Your life took a surprising turn,’ I say, smirking.

‘You didn’t expect me to wind up on this side of the law, did you?’ Josh sees the humor, how could he not? He presses his lips together, fighting his own smirk no doubt.

It’s very clear that he’s not here to reminisce though so I come back to his original question. ‘I haven’t heard from Tara in twelve years,’ I tell him, so clearly remembering the last communication we had. ‘Haven’t seen her for fourteen, you remember when I left.’

‘You were in contact after you left town then? A couple of years later?’

‘Yeah, she did call me two years later but she was wasted at the time. She didn’t make much sense and in the end, I hung up on her.’ I feel awful admitting this to him; he’s surely judging me.

‘Oh.’ He looks disappointed; I’m disappointed in myself. ‘I’d hoped you might have had contact with her recently. No calls? No missed calls from numbers you don’t recognise?’

‘Um, I don’t think so but, I don’t know. You want me to think back through all missed calls from unknown numbers? How far back? That’s… thorough. What’s going on Josh?’

‘She’s missing.’ The old friend wins out then. Josh watches me carefully for a reaction, the detective is hovering. ‘No one has seen or heard from her in almost a month. People in her life are very concerned for her safety.’

After dark, the kids tucked up and sleeping, and her sceptical friend parked on the couch with a packet of chocolate biscuits, Xanthe heads out once again. This time, she follows a black hatchback to a bowling alley. She watches as a frizzy blonde head ducks out of the car. The woman stops, tugs on the hem of her sequin mini-skirt, and then teeters across the carpark. She’s only a few steps from the door when a man comes out. She pauses, he walks toward her, she backs her way along the edge of the wall. She clearly knows this man but her body language is hard to read; is she frightened of him? Then he closes the distance between them, drawing her into a long embrace; not fear then. Xanthe snaps some photos and she checks the shots she’s captured. Not conclusive enough, there’s no kissing, nothing that couldn’t be explained away by a quick thinking adulterous as a friendly hug. The right, tell-all photo is so hard to capture. Xanthe watches them enter the building and decides she has nothing to lose by doing the same.

As she’s tucking her camera away – far too obtrusive in a well-lit building – the phone she’s just picked up to act as proxy begins to ring. ‘Jesus Christ.’ She slams the steering wheel with her palm and her car gives a short, strangled toot. ‘Shit.’ Thank God the suspected couple already gone inside. ‘Hello, Mother. What can I do for you?’

‘Xanthe, I called the house. Imagine my surprise when Grace answered your phone.’

‘Yes, she’s fully capable and equipped to answer phones Mother, I’m not sure why that gave you such a fright.’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous. I was merely surprised to find that you weren’t home. And at night, while your husband’s out of town.’

Crap. Xanthe hasn’t thought of a cover story, she’d never had to formulate one before. No one was ever shocked to find a twenty-something single woman out at night, that never begged explanation. She checks her watch. ‘Mother, I’m sitting in a gym car park right now trying to recover from forty-five minutes of cardio that I swear came close to killing me. If you have something you want to say, can you just get on with it.’ It doesn’t occur to her that Grace could have given her mother any alternative explanation in the world for her absence.

‘Grace told me you were picking up groceries.’ Her tone is smug.

‘After the gym Mother. I’m hardly going to leave bags of food to defrost in the boot of my car while I sweat my ass off, am I?’

‘Oh, don’t be vulgar.’

‘Again, why are you calling?’

‘No reason in particular, can’t I just call my daughter? Do I need a permit?’

Xanthe takes a deep, patient breath. ‘Well I must be going now and it’s dangerous to drive while on the phone so, goodbye.’

‘Just one more thing, I was driving past your place today and I noticed your lawn was looking a little dry. I know Mike’s away and you so hate yard work, but would it kill you to turn the hose onto it?’

‘Goodbye Mother.’ Xanthe hangs up.

In this short exchange, though justifiably distracted, Xanthe has been watching the door of the bowling alley to make sure her targets remain inside. She gathers her bag now – turning her mischievous phone to silent – and sets about her waylaid chore.

The fluorescent lights inside the building take Xanthe some adjusting to as she steps in from the steadily darkening parking lot. She takes in the scene, which can be summarized as sparsely populated and more than a little depressing. Three lanes are in use; players are slumped on seats in various states of engagement/drunkenness. She had hoped for a busier, more vibrant atmosphere, one that would provide more cover for a solo woman who has no intention of bowling tonight. The advantage is, though, that Xanthe can more easily spot her frizzy blonde. In a booth against the far wall, she manages to do just that. The male companion is nowhere to be seen and the woman is engrossed in the screen of her phone but this is a start at least. Xanthe must now find a way to blend into the scenery, she goes with the obvious choice, a seat at the bar.

‘Vodka lime and soda please.’ One drink won’t hurt. Xanthe takes the stool right at the end of the bar, nestled next to the wall. She can prop herself against it – most of the people here are propped against something – and swivel her head for a full view of the room, more specifically, frizzy blonde Sonia. She turns her attention now to locating Sonia's male companion but given the poor lighting outside, she can’t be sure which, if any of the men loitering around the place, is him. She must watch and wait to see who joins Sonia in the booth. Xanthe sips at her drink and stares listlessly around the room. She fits right in.

Finally, a man walking in Xanthe’s direction sparks some recognition but almost immediately thereafter she registers that this is not the man she is trying to spot, this is not a man she hopes ever to spot, anywhere. He sidles up to her and leans across the bar. ‘How’s it going my love?’ he asks her, his tone teasing. ‘Wasn’t expecting to see you here.’

‘Shane,’ is all she gives him in reply.

He orders a drink and stubbornly stays put. Xanthe looks anywhere but him wondering how this night could possibly get any worse. Just then, she spots the man from the parking lot. She’s sure it’s him and this is confirmed when he walks over to Sonia’s booth and slides in cosily next to her. There’s no inconspicuous way to get footage now with this oaf by Xanthe’s side. She can’t give away her reason for being here, her target. The strongest motivation for an investigator to keep their dealings to themselves is reserved for bitter rivals.

‘You’re looking bloody fantastic might I say?’ Her antagonist gives her an appreciative appraisal.

It’s far from appreciated by Xanthe. ‘Look, Shane, I’ve just been talking to my mother on the phone and that’s been more than enough hell for one day; I’m really not in the mood.’

‘I’m just sayin’, couple of kids and you still got it. Most women aren’t so lucky.’

‘Is there a reason your still here?’

He throws his hands up in disbelief, almost toppling his beer, which he deftly steadies in the next move. ‘Can’t I enjoy the company of a beautiful colleague? What the hell’s this world coming to? Feminists, that’s the problem. Can’t even look at a woman now without them feeling violated.’

‘Last time we ran into each other Shane you tried to set the room on fire, with me in it, I find it hard to believe you suddenly enjoy my company.’

‘Yeah, but things were different then, weren’t they? Times were tougher, competition was fierce.’ He draws the last word out, giving it a sleazy quality that makes Xanthe shudder.

‘How’s it any different now? I guess you’ve gathered I’m not here because it’s my favourite hangout? You’re many things Shane Mason but unobservant isn’t one of them.’

He gives her a sharp-toothed grin. ‘Oh, how things have changed my sweet, you just paid me a compliment.’

‘Come on, either tell me why you’re talking to me and getting in the way of my business, or piss off.’

He raises his palms in defence now. ‘Hey, hey, settle petal. Look, competition isn’t as brutal as it used to be is all I’m saying. I’ve got work coming out my ears, I couldn’t care less if you’re back on the scene. Heck, I’ll send some your way.’

‘Why?’ Xanthe asks trying to sound far less interested than she is.

Shane misunderstands which part of that she’s questioning. ‘Ever since the latest gangs rolled into town the competition has, well, dropped off, so to speak. Pyro 9’s, Darts, couple other smaller ones, they all streamed in about the same time thinking there was all this relatively untouched territory for the taking. They didn’t count on each other, see. Within a week two-thirds of this town’s PI’s were hired by one gang or another to dig up dirt on their rivals. Within a month, two-thirds of this town’s PI’s had turned up dead. Extremely dead.’

‘I read the papers.’

‘Yeah? Well, it was something else living through it. What a change in the marketplace.’ He laughs here and Xanthe fights the urge to punch him squarely in the balls. ‘It’s true what they say, survival of the fittest and all that. I knew it was a bad move to take on that shit and it turned out to be not only my saving grace but my considerable vocational advancement.’

Xanthe is surprised Shane knows such big words. ‘So, you don’t care what I do now because you’ve got more than enough work, too much in fact.’

‘Exactly.’ He winks.

‘In that case Shane, as much as I’ve loved catching up, how about you fuck off and let me get on with the work you don’t mind me doing?’

He chuckles. ‘Always did have a mouth on ya.’ He gets up from his stool. ‘I’ll be leaving you to it then precious. Tell you what, you give me a call if you ever want me to liaise on anything.’ He tilts an invisible hat and makes his way toward the front door.

‘Asshole,’ Xanthe mutters under her breath. She turns her attention back to the booth now only to find it empty. She frantically scans the massive room but finds no sign of Sonia or her man. ‘Fucking asshole,’ she corrects.

My id ate twelve donuts and proceeded to go nuts,

Coated in sugar and crumbs.

My super-ego blushed profusely, at behaving so loosely,

And apologized to concerned watching Mums'.

In came my ego following closely where we go,

And dragged them both up by their ears.

’Id, you’re a moron, control yourself, come on,

Super-ego, get a hold of your fears.’

My mind is aflutter with wings of inspiration, little sparks spur me to action

… Flight of ideas, thoughts racing.

I pour this drive into my work with newly discovered ferocity

… Increase in goal-directed activity.

I lay awake full of energy, I must get up and write, release the valve

… Decreased need for sleep.

I should eat, I should clean, I should go to work, but waste this creativity?

… Excessive involvement in pleasure related activities, potential for painful consequence.

But those consequences aren’t for me, right? I’m great at this, inspired, I’m going to be wonderful

… Inflated self-esteem, grandiosity.

This idea is gold, this is my destiny, it alone will get me where I need to be; that would be great as well, yes, truly unique, that's the one.

… Where was I, oh yes, distractibility.

We’ve never met. We’ve never laid eyes upon each other; never exchanged the cautious scrutiny of acquaintance. We’ve never had cause to reflect upon disposition and think, ‘She’s really rather lovely.’ We are a mystery to each other in so many ways but in others, that could not be further from the truth.

Your existence. I am fundamentally changed because you exist. My dreams, my focus, my self-perception, the very cells of my body are altered because of you. I am new, as you will be very soon as well. What’s to come? This is a fantasy, innumerable fantasies; this is the promise that makes my completely altered state okay. I am different but I am different because of you and this feels like the greatest and most worthwhile accomplishment of all. You have changed the way I see my past self. I was ‘then’ and I am ‘now’ and ‘then ’could never compare. Thank you for the gift of self-awareness.

Strangers ask me questions about you but there’s nothing much for me to tell them. They accept this, they too are happy for you to simply be. These strangers ask because they each have some small stake in you but don’t feel pressured by that pull, you have a stake in each of them as well. We all matter to each other pulled in so many directions that we will always remain upright. Inverted support.

I will steady you, I will hold you up for many years until I can be sure that the support of the others is reliable. I will always be the one who is most attentive to her thread. I will pull it taught when you sway too far away and loosen it when others can once again be trusted but know this, I will always be watching and ready. We’ve never met but you’re as important to me already as you will always be. We’ve never met but I think I’ve always known you.

We’ve never met, but we’ve never been strangers.