At the work barbeque they burnt the sausages and chatted about death.

The four horsemen of bureaucracy were late, traffic, they said, shaking their heads

like scythes. Steven had put off doing the mowing for this, and regretted

it. Only fifteen minutes in, and he’d already run out of compassion and

conversation topics. His wife had kept him up all night, washing the sheets

of their son who was no longer home. He’d rolled his sleeves up for the occasion

and bumped into Maddie, who he’d accidently professed a drunken affection

for, long ago. She avoided his eyes, having taken a small breath of her boyfriend

and his joint, in the car before arrival. He was waiting there now, like the beach

trips she always promised herself. The potato salad tasted strange and they

spoke about the Ukraine. Martin took the floor with the surety of a man

who’d been divorced twice but was still looking. Only being the boss saved him

from the ridicule of being caught on dating sites at work. He held forth a gentle

tirade about America. The half-dozen employees bobbed heads like sunflowers

drunk on sunset. A child with a kite ran along the Yarra and they looked, whether

they had their own child or not. The sky is falling, he shouted, eyes wilder than tigers

in a zoo in winter. He ran, leaking string and gaudy patchwork. For a long time after

they’d returned to their sausages and favourite end-times, they kept looking upwards

at the sky, which remained a beautiful, almost painful, blue.