PATIENCE MET ME in the lobby, her black hair shiny as the glass entryway and silver elevator doors: liquescent. That summer she’d cut her hair into a bob that flicked subtly into petal shapes at her nape and earlobes, and seeing her now, so neat and glossy, she reminded me of a cartoon character, though I couldn’t think which one.

You’re here! she said, as though I were late, which I didn’t think I was, at least not very. I hadn’t known there could be residential buildings on this street, and had wandered the CBD concrete in the late-day heat, walking parallel to the tram tracks and stops, dazedly taking in each shopfront: they were as spare and opulent to me as gallery rooms, all timber flooring and angles of honeyed light.