In the cooler months in the city, Zia and I caught the free tram to borrow books from the library. We sat in the winter sun and whispered the same generalities about the piqued warmth of it, coming as it did across the skyscrapers and into a pool on the library lawn. On Saturday mornings, someone always brought along a bread stick and a joint and a whole group gathered, melting and dripping into one another, reading David Malouf and Dorothy Porter aloud.
In the cooler months in the city, we sat on Hannah’s rooftop and threw logs into an iron brazier and drank mulled wine from stolen steins. Someone always brought their vinyl collection and we swayed along to Paul Simon or Neil Young and we were each more sophisticated than the next person. Hannah swung around on her thin ankles, in her wrap dresses, and topped up our glasses; we looked out over the skyline and winked back at the lights on the tower.
In the cooler months in the city, we walked along the river and bought crepes at the bridge. The man who sold them sang by the water and we bought his hazelnut-filled ones and his cheese-filled ones and Zia said, Dinner and a show! and we all laughed. On Friday nights, someone always got out their pois and a whole group gathered, transfixed by the dual majesties of the spinning fire and the paper pancakes. On the hour, the casino erupted into volcanoes behind us, there by the fire and the river and the people. And the free tram chimed as we dissipated, one foot before the other beside the slapping of the boats.