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So we talk—me leanin’ on a lamppost, her smokin’ a fag. “Memory is a curse,” I say, nickin’ from the movie. She nods, like she gets it. Life’s beaten her down, but she’s still kickin’. I exagerate in my head—she’s a femme fatale, playin’ me like a fiddle. Ha! As if. Truth is, she’s just tryin’ to eat.

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First off, I hit up the local café on King Street. You know, the one with the dodgy Wi-Fi? Yeah, that one. I ordered a flat white, and the barista, bless her, spills it all over the counter. I’m like, “Great start, mate!” But she just laughs it off. I mean, who spills coffee at 8 AM?

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