Around nine there’s the first whisper of a breeze stirring in the sun bleached leaves of the gum. Nothing comes of it; stillness reclaims the air, the fetid night regains its grip on sweating bodies. Beer is the order of the evening while smoking coils keep the whining marauders at a distance. We wait. The night waits. Passion waits: too hot to go to bed. We sit on the back verandah listening to moaning dogs, cursing neighbours two blocks down, a wailing baby next door.                            At half past nine the breeze returns, teases our hair, our sweating shirts.…