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drug that can stop it is cortisone, and cortisone is too dangerous to use for more than a week or two at a time. It clears up the skin for a while, but in the long run it does more damage than the eczema does. I still use it, though, when my skin gets bad. That’s why my face is all wrinkled. The cortisone does that.’
    â€˜Or you could avoid the things you’re allergic to?’
    She nodded. ‘Or I could avoid the things I’m allergic to.’
    We smoked. She rolled on her side and looked at me. ‘Thought you’d at least try something last night,’ she said.
    â€˜It didn’t occur to me. No offence.’
    â€˜Do you like sex?’
    â€˜It hasn’t worked out too well so far.’
    â€˜What’s been wrong?’
    â€˜Who knows. It can all be very cold, sometimes.’
    â€˜You don’t seem cold. You have a very warm laugh.’
    We got up. Cynthia grilled us some ham and tomato for breakfast. I considered the cans of beer that were left in the fridge. They looked good, better than I felt.
    â€˜I don’t know if I’m up to these,’ I said.
    â€˜Have you ever tried Catovits?’
    I hadn’t.
    â€˜They’re pills,’ she said. ‘They give them to old people in hospitals to keep them alert. They’re like speed. I get them on prescription for depression, but they’re great hangover cures.’
    She brought out a foil sheet containing round red pills. We took one each. We ate our breakfast. The hangover evaporated like magic. We opened some beer, moved out onto the verandah. The day was overcast and damp.
    â€˜You doing anything today?’ she asked.
    â€˜Uh-uh. How about you?’
    â€˜No.’
    We watched the sky for a while.
    â€˜And you’ve plenty of these Catovits?’
    â€˜Enough,’ she said.
    I stayed with her for the next six days.
    We slept together all that time, but we made no bodily contact other than rolling against each other in our sleep. It was something new for Cynthia. She’d fucked a lot of men. Sex was taken very much for granted. But she didn’t seem to mind. And I was content. I liked her conversation, but sex was something else all together. I masturbated occasionally when I was alone in the bed. From time to time she requested that I leave the bedroom so that she could do the same. It was a workable system.
    On the sixth day I called one of my sisters, Louise. There were four girls in my family, and six boys. Louise was only a couple of years older than me. She was a doctor. She was about to move to Sydney to specialise in pathology. She wanted to cut up the bodies.
    â€˜Gordon? I heard you quit.’
    â€˜It’s true. Work was killing me.’
    â€˜So what now?’
    â€˜I don’t know. I’ve been taking it easy the last week.’
    â€˜Are you still coming to my party?’
    She was throwing a party at her house, to say goodbye to her friends.
    â€˜I’ll be there. Is it okay if I bring someone?’
    â€˜Of course. Who?’
    â€˜A friend from the pub. One of the barmaids.’
    â€˜Oh? Anyone special?’
    â€˜Just a friend, Louise.’
    â€˜Okay ...’
    Cynthia took some time getting ready. She covered her face with powders and creams. When she was finished you couldn’t tell about her face, not unless you looked very closely. She went through this every time she left the house. She hated her skin. Another thing she hated was her tattoo. She had a tattoo of a butterfly on her left breast. If she was wearing a light coloured shirt she wore a bandaid over the tattoo to hide it. Tonight though she was wearing a black top and a black skirt. They were work clothes. She’d been in pubs for so long that all the clothes she owned were either black or white.
    â€˜I like it,’ I said, about the tattoo.
    â€˜I don’t. I don’t know what the fuck I had in mind when I got it done ...’
    â€˜How old were