Eight Pieces on Prostitution by Dorothy Johnston, Port Campbell Press Page A

creamy olive places and Simon doesn’t wake. She’s always loved his skin. She wishes, and is shocked by the wish, that he would never wake.
    She goes to the kitchen and sits with a vegemite sandwich and a glass of water. She does not think of making plans.
    The young man’s smile ushers Sophie forward from the waiting room. He smiles with his head on one side, in a considering way. Sophie smiles back, plonking her bottom onto the chair, setting her bag on the floor beside her.
    â€˜I filled in my form,’ she says. ‘Boy, they come thick and fast, those forms!’
    She stares at a potted plant. Why do Social Security clerks always give her that daffy smile? Maybe they hate the routine as much as she does.
    They’re so high up there’s a view from the window of the lake, a part of Civic, the Canberra she feels over her shoulder but hardly ever sees.
    When she glances at him again, the young man’s smile has vanished. He clears his throat like a bad actor before reading a part.
    â€˜It’s come to our notice that you have a second income. You know there’s a limit to what you can earn over and above your benefit.’
    Sophie shakes her head emphatically. ‘You’ve got the wrong girl. I haven’t got a job. No way.’
    She feels Simon’s fine hair brush her face, remembers how he kissed her outside the flats as she was leaving for Fyshwick, told her to have a good one, and did not come back.
    The young man rocks on the heels of his chair and asks, ‘Where’s Melissa’s father?’
    â€˜He left. He was here for two days, then he left again.’
    â€˜Don’t you know his address?’
    The young man makes it sound like it’s her fault Simon disappeared. It will be just like it was the first time; no one will believe her.
    â€˜Did Simon come to you with some bullshit story? Like, your accusation doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. But Simon trying to get out of paying child support, that
does
make sense, if you follow me.’
    Sophie thinks of Mrs G, but Mrs G would never dob her in, of that one fact she is certain.
    â€˜The trouble with girls like you is that you think you’re invisible, and then -’
    â€˜While you’ve got eyes everywhere, like Superman!’
    The young man lets his chair legs fall with a small, self-satisfied thud. ‘I was behind you in the bank.’
    â€˜Oh Jesus, that’s cool. That’s really something. You haven’t got the resources to chase my prick of an ex, but you follow me to the bank!’
    â€˜I happened to be there. I live in Woden if you must know. Look, Ms Robertson, I could throw the book at you, but I prefer to try and work something out. Your benefit will have to be suspended, but you can re-apply. That is, if you give up your job. You have to make a choice. And if you’re caught again, don’t expect to get off lightly. The most you’ll have to do right now is re-pay what we’ve overpaid you. And believe me, if you think that’s tough, you don’t know how tough we can be.’
    Sophie feels herself begin to spiral downwards, out of the high, air-conditioned office, down and down, like a leaf that’s been dead too long. Her throat’s all choked up with dead matter and when she tries to speak the words won’t come.
    Two days later, she makes another special bus trip, but this time gets off at the lake.
    She takes her G-string from her bag and throws it as far as she can out into the water, watches it slowly float away. ‘That’s pollution, that is,’ she tells Melissa, who nods as though she understands. Sophie thinks of a storm, waves tearing at green silk. But hey, it’s only old Lake Burley Griffin. ‘It’ll return to nature,’ she tells Melissa, and then, ‘I never liked the colour green. If I decide to go back, I can buy another one. A different colour this time. Black maybe, or