In the rapier silence of the empty kitchen I unwrapped bowls and paired chopsticks. The larger soup bowls were already at home on the shelf above the sink, along with the cannisters of rice, dried onions and pickled lemons. I called up some tulips on Windows and started chopping mint. The glass bowl steamed with the heat of the water inside it, and shone translucently each time a sheet of rice paper was dipped in its sharded depths, drops of rice rich water falling on the wooden chopping board. The tiny stories of bean shoots, carrot slices and mint folded together, then dipped in the peanut sauce. The stories we told each other that first time in Fitzroy. I ate each roll with a grim determination, swallowing the almost dry vermicelli painfully. Swigs of ginger beer between bites. I left the smeared bowl of peanut sauce and the implements in the deep sink. A small chirrup from my wristwatch. The drizzle of radio static in the wireless morning. 10am. Broadcast time.