I drive on the Pacific Highway and cry to Elvis songs, sobbing because I can't love you, smoking tasteless cigarettes because my nose is blocked. I drive through town and eye dusty tradies and imagine marrying one. I imagine cooking him a budget lasagne in an old Queenslander. Our dirty, nicenatured children run around barefoot. My breasts have sagged and I'm not wearing any make-up. We wait for him to get home and, when he does, I crack a blue can of beer for him and I like the sound. We sit at an old table and eat carbs after 7 pm. He says things like fair dinkum and done instead of did but I don't care. Later we get into bed, he smells sweaty and his stomach is soft and hairy. I suck his cock and fall asleep with his cum still on my chest...'