Selected for Best Australian Stories 2006

IN THE ’80s I was in love with Robert Smith. I also hoped against all rumour that Morrisey’s croon was for me. Before that it was the boy from our local grocery store, the one who helped shift the crates of sweating milk between the cool room and the fridges, cap pulled low over frantic blonde hair, refusing to look at me whenever I walked past. Once or twice I dropped my school bag and stood right in his path, hands on what was fast becoming a waist. He edged around me like I was just another fridge.