Mark's day

Thursday is a guiding gig at the You Yangs — corporate abseil day for a finance firm, Mark in the fitted Apex Guide polo looping the static rope for a group of eight. Halfway down the wall the team lead, a woman named Petra, swings hard into the harness until the chest strap bites into Mark's left shoulder and says, close enough that only he hears: 'You don't look like a boxer. You look like someone who should be on a calendar.' Mark talks her to the bottom without answering. On the drive home, harness still unbuckled across his chest, he pulls into a servo to release it; the buckle has jammed against the bruise from Lachie's check hook two days ago and the strap won't budge. He twists sideways in the driver's seat and yanks it free one-handed; the buckle pops loose and cracks him across the chin. He sits in the servo car park with his hand on his mouth for a full minute, then drives home with the harness in the footwell and the line settling somewhere under the shoulder.