We lean alongside each other in the crowded courtyard of The Old Bar. A man in an outback hat is yarning about the things he saw and did in Perth, asking about our Kiwi accents, asking about us. The guy next to him seems too skinny to ride horses but he works in leather and wants us to move into his studio apartment in Fitzroy when he leaves. Oh we’re not together, we laugh.

The wall is pine-green against our backs as we prop against it, drinking the night in. The cigarette smoke of everyone wraps around the atmosphere, my hair and hands. Garish light is bouncing over the walls from phones and lights strung in lines above us. I have my jacket on over my shoulders - it’s not winter yet but you can feel it creeping.

You’re telling me about a woman you once went on a date with - she text you when you went to the bathroom to buy her more drinks. The cheek, we say, and I take my card and get us another round. Through the wall the laptop DJ is spinning Bon Jovi and people are grooving. Someone's drink crashes on the floor. Everyone cheers. A group from a cat-themed party enter.

A fresh faced hipster interrupts and asks me for a lighter. You move closer, your arm threads behind me, holding my jacket which is holding my waist. The music softens, the lights turn different colours. My glass is cold in my hand but my insides are warm. I can feel your arm and it can feel me. It feels nice. Not for the illusion of forever, but just the moment, while the bulbs are still bright.