MARGO’S SLIPPERS
Indicator flashes right. Margo’s entering the glass-panelled foyer. I don’t know her that well. She lives in a retirement village and has a thing for knitting. She swims when I swim and that’s the full extent of our relationship.
The building is square. The swimming pool is square. A square pool in a square building? Perhaps it isn’t exactly square. Maybe it’s stretching to the rectangular but not quite making it.
He doesn’t like squares. Curves are his thing. I bet he lives in a round house with portholes for windows.
The building, more a concrete and iron shed, flanks the river beside the old railway line, now a bitumen trail for horses’ hooves, bicycle wheels and feet. In the space between the building and the trail is the car park, laid out with speed humps. I driv
