She was to have fled between the gaps in the revolution. But not a moment too soon, or a moment too late, the gates sliced escape like cheddar. In the morning he wondered about the transition. Orbiting across the dawning blue. Browsing the obituaries over coffee. If the sun or the moon crumbled they would leave. When bad news comes the good news kids split for the hills. In the prosperous times they research subscriptions for forgetting. Install the latest retro façade. Then later, across the empty room; he had known she had conquered oceans, before she had left his air. He grips a bus ticket like the final atom. The wind skulks off Port Phillip Bay, a discourteous cousin. He says: 'After all these years, I thought you'd know me better than that.'