Victor Gilmore checked his reflection in the window of a shop selling colonial furniture, smoothed his short black hair, and thought that maybe he would shave his head - it would suit the clothes he wore. He noticed a woman from TV3 at one of the pavement tables of the cafe next door. Perhaps he might overhear some gossip about sacked TV newsreader John Hawkesby, so he took the table beside her; but it was a warm afternoon, and it would be nice to sit outside.

A waitress asked him, "Coffee to start with?" and he said, "Yes, please. Long black." He watched her walk back into the dark cafe. Hadn't he talked to her at a gallery opening last week? He thought he recognised the butterfly clips in her hair. Or was she that girl who acted in that brilliant short film about a dripping tap? He began to rehearse a question - "What are the specials?" - when he saw Charles, who was holding the latest issue of Wallpaper.

"Oh, right," said Victor, smirking at the magazine. "The thinking man's House and Garden."

"I thought Lily might like it," said Charles, who caught the waitress's eye. "Coffee to start with?" she asked, and he said, "A latte, please."

Victor said, "God, it's hot. El Nino. But that's what they said last year. I'm so over El Nino. It's so 20th century."

"We went swimming after work yesterday," said Charles.

"Don't talk to me about work. The computers went down this morning. All the emails just froze. Our IT guy doesn't have a clue. Hopeless. I'm sick of that place. I wish they'd make me redundant. I'd love to win a Hawkesby size payout." Victor hoped the TV3 presenter might laugh and make a comment, but she had been joined at the table by someone who looked like a woman from a telephone commercial. David said, "Are you going to see that techno DJ from England tonight?"

"Techno's dead," declared Victor. "I was thinking of writing its obituary and sending it to Pavement. It's just something for pissed 18-year-olds who think it's going off. I mean, it's the new lounge music. That dead."

Charles lit a Marlboro Light.

"There’ll he none of that soon," said Victor. "Gizzus one ... Ta. They should have non-smoking cities. Masterton. Blenheim. Christchurch. Places I never have to go to."

The waitress said, "Ready to order yet?" They both ordered pasta, and then Victor said to her, "You look really familiar. " She said, "Are you JB?" Victor shook his head. "Oh," she said. "I thought you were this guy I had in my dance class."

After she left, Victor said, "What sort of name is JB? Is that her pimp, or something?"
He smoothed his hair, and turned to look at the street. "Look," he said. "There's that guy."

"What guy?"

"That guy. You know."

Charles shrugged. Victor left his elbow on the table and with his wrist, pointed his finger at a man with short blonde hair walking on the opposite pavement, and eating a doughnut.

"Oh, yeah," said Charles. "Who's he again?"

"That guy we met at Gideon’s party on Friday. He was really drunk, remember, and kept calling me a jackass. Should have smacked him one."

"You? That's funny."

"What's funny, come to think of it, is that big fight you had with Lily. What was that about?"

"You're such a bitch," said Charles.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, JB," Charles smirked.

"At least I don't dye my hair," said Victor. He overheard the TV3 woman say, "Did you hear what she wore to the wedding?" Inside the cafe, he saw a man with short brown hair sitting by himself and writing on a laptop. "Look at that w****r," said Victor, but Charles was flipping through his magazine.

Victor felt moved to write something creative, a novel or whatever, when he got home from work. But then he thought about his city-fringe apartment, which was worth nothing any more. That was a bad investment. And it never looked tidy enough. Maybe he should hire a cleaner - refugees were probably cheap. He could teach her English. She'd be grateful for that. He imagined her laying out his sheets ... God, he needed a holiday. Sydney. Vietnam. But he hadn't seen his family in months. A week in Napier - no. No way. He saw the white pavements, the dry grass. The boasting he'd have to do in front of his old friends from school. "Partying all the time, eh." Well, that was true. But he was 28 years old. He wanted to be somebody. He glared at the laptop author, who was now staring at the ceiling, and scratching his goatee. Wonder who he is, thought Victor. He didn't like the man's shirt. Those wide collars were so calculated, so funkay. Still, you could tell he had a good body. The man looked back at Victor, who turned his head, Jesus, he thought, what am I thinking?

The waitress arrived at his table with the two plates of pasta. "Great! " said Victor Gilmour.