Mark's day

Mark swims the bay at St Kilda at six-fifteen, the water grey, the wind off the south-west, the flags on the lifesaving club pulled flat. The catch moves through the water and the arm follows and the shoulder clicks clean on the fourth stroke and does not separate. He showers at the public change rooms and walks up to the cafe on Acland Street for a long black. At Lygon Street by ten he is standing in the kitchen, the Manila envelope and the receipt side by side on the counter, the 2004 singlet on the wall in the hall, and the question of who chooses when the next separation happens is still on the calendar in mid-September and in autumn. Mark does not decide. The kitchen clock ticks. The fridge hums. The month ends.