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Ethan turns and there is Carter. He’s clearly drunk. His eyes are unfocused. His too-tight buttons-straining-over-pecs mulberry-colored shirt has come loose from his jeans. He must be returning from the bar because he holds a bottle of boutique beer in one hand and a slopping glass of white wine in the other. With the studied carefulness of a drunk he places both drinks down on Ethan’s table and proffers his fist for one of his ridiculous fist bumps.

“Mate! Long time no see! How are ya?”

He seems amicable. Not angry. Perhaps it will be fine.

“I’m good, Carter,” says Ethan. “Good. How are you?” Careful, careful, just tread carefully.

“So, you going to introduce me or what?” He gestures at the two women, who both offer the classic fixed fuck-off-please smiles Ethan’s seen so many women give twats in bars.

Ethan introduces them, and Carter lurches forward and takes each woman’s hand in a faux courtly manner and kisses it, the way drunk tossers sometimes do. Ethan tries to say sorry with his eyes. He knows both women know they can’t refuse: that it’s safer to let a guy this drunk slobber over their hands, because his mood can turn on a dime, but it’s wrong, it’s so wrong, and he feels the bubble of fury low within his stomach.

“Anyway, we were about to make a move,” he says.

“Yeah, we’ve got that booking.” Faith wipes the back of her hand on her shorts.

“So you heard from Jasmine?” asks Carter. “Since she’s left the country? She’s blocked me, but I bet she’s still in touch with you, right?”

“She’s my flatmate,” says Ethan. “So…you know, I’m feeding her fish.”

And here it comes. Anger floods Carter’s face. “You’re feeding her fish. I think you did a bit more than that, didn’t ya?!”

The volume and vitriol are enough to still surrounding conversations.

Ethan thinks about the “stealth knife” in his pocket, but at what point is he meant to use it? This point? Or does he wait until he’s attacked? When it’s too late.

The two women stand. They push their chairs back in.

“We’ve really got to go,” says Lila. “It was nice to meet you, Carter.”

Carter stares at her for a moment, distracted, but then a thought crosses his mind.

“You fucking him?” He points at Ethan. “He fucked my girlfriend, you know. Right under my nose.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” says Ethan. “You’re deluded, mate. We’re leaving.”

“Or maybe you didn’t, but you wanted to, didn’t you, you badly wanted to, sitting there in your room—” He uses his fist to make a crude gesture.

Ethan has never felt rage like it. Carter is contaminating this night. This perfect night.

He feels Faith’s hand on his arm, pulling him away. “Let’s go, Ethan.”

“Yeah, nice to see you, Ethan !” Carter calls after them. “Say hi to Jasmine, Ethan !”

“Don’t look back,” says Lila, and it seems like they are free, they are walking away from the bar toward Circular Quay, weaving in and out of the crowd, but then Ethan knows somehow he should turn and time slows right down, and this is it, it’s happening. Carter is coming for him, like he’s wanted to do for so long, fist clenched, elbow back, and Ethan has never been punched, guys like us don’t get into fights, will it hurt? Will he fall and crack his head? It happens, Dad, nice guys sometimes die in fights they don’t start, then white-feathers-flapping-squawking the seagull is flying straight at Carter’s murderous face, as though Carter’s head is a French fry it’s determined to steal, and the guy with the bird patrol dog says, “Oh shit!” and the dog bounds forward as Carter staggers back, thwarted.

“Run!” says Lila.

“Thanks, Harvey!” calls out Faith.

They’re running under the silver moonlight and the city lights reflect off the shimmering harbor and Ethan isn’t dead, he’s alive, he’s so amazingly, gratefully alive, and he doesn’t remember it happening but Faith seems to be holding his hand.