twenty-two in a car park

He said twenty-two like he owned it.

That is the part that will not leave. Not the cameraman in my face, not Lev saying swimmer like a brand, not the fog on the freeway driving home. The line. I stopped you at twenty-two, I'll stop you at forty, the difference is now I know how. He stood two feet away and said it like he was reading my file. Maybe he was. Maybe he has had my file for five years.

I held the stare. Four seconds. I counted because I do not count in car parks, I count in the ring. Four seconds is long when a camera is on you and the man across from you has stopped more people than I have started. I did not blink first. I want to remember that as something. I am not sure what.

I got in the ute. I did not speak. That was the right call. Every word I had in my mouth was the wrong one.

Home, couch, laptop, the fourth smoker on loop. I am not going to pretend I was studying him. I was. The pull-counter is a clock now. He drops the left shoulder a finger-width before the right hand fires and his back foot pivots on the ball, not the heel. I have known this for two weeks. Tonight I watched it because I needed to do something with my hands that was not drive back to Caulfield.