The police tell me three different dates on which I might leave quarantine, though none are relayed with any confidence.

In the end, my departure happens earlier than any of the mooted days.

Hotel reception call:
Hello miss, what time are you checking out on Sunday?
Oh. I didn’t know I was leaving on Sunday.
Yes. Sunday.
But that’s earlier than... that’s not fourteen days, is it?
It’s thirteen nights. In hotels, that’s fourteen days.

I book a flight.

Before I get the train to the airport I walk down the quay to the opera house. I drag my suitcase. I breathe the air. I feel the sun on my face. I sit on a bench and stare at the sails in the burning blue.

At the airport at 11am the women next to me are drinking large white wines and I think seriously about joining them.

The flight is turbulent. Queasy-making.

Then I’m home.

The flat looks the same as I remember it. And different. A bottle of sparkling waits in the fridge. The plants welcome my return.

The memory foam mattress has forgotten me. But the sofa remembers.


World without end.
Our ghost kitchen future.
Can AI replace playwrights?
Why men won't apologise.
Patricia Lockwood forgets how to read.
The triumph of brazenly uncomplicated entertainment.
Why do fans want to #FreeBritney Spears?
How Choire Sicha is steering style in a crisis.
Can liberalism and its gatekeepers survive the seismic changes in our society?
Crime, punishment and indemnities in western Sydney’s gang wars.
On getting done up when you are coming undone.
Jia Tolentino on practicing the discipline of hope.
Social media and the end of discourse.
The true cost of dollar stores.
Mind fuck: writing better sex.
Police and the liberal fantasy.
This pickle is a cake.
Our robot bosses.
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K x

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I pay my respects to the Wurundjeri and Boon Wurrung people of the Kulin Nation, on whose unceded land I live and work.

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Keziah Warner · Fitzroy · Melbourne, Victoria 3065 · Australia

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