While Willow scours the streets, looking helplessly for her escaped cat, someone knocks on the door of her little townhouse. Her flatmate, Wazzer, still in a terry bathrobe, opens it. “Yeah?”
It’s hard to say who’s more surprised, Wazzer or Wayland.
Wazzer leans against the doorframe, tattoos peeping out, multiple ear piercings glistening. She lives there; it’s her doorframe. “What do you want?”
“I, uh, y’know, thought I’d stop by, show Willow my new bike.” Wayland gestures one racing-leather-clad arm at a shiny black motorcycle.
Wazzer raises one eyebrow. “Heard you were with that chickie Will works with, Ulrika, now. Is that where the bike comes from?”
Wayland runs a hand through his hair. “This town is too frickin’ small, mate.”
“Bigger than Wainui. But maybe not big enough. ” They exchange the same glare they threw at each other when their rival ganglets had run across each other in the worst street in Wainuiomata, years ago.
Wayland’s eyes slide away first. “Still hard as, eh?”
“Yeah, and no.”
His mouth quirks. “So are you and Willow, like, lesbians?”
Wazzer out and out snarls, “Get the fuck out of here before I throw you –” Wayland is already sidling away. “And don’t come back!”
As his motorcycle roars off, a terrified calico streaks out from beneath Wazzer’s parked car and darts into the house. “Cilla! Here, puss.” With one last glare, and plenty of food for thought, Wazzer closes the door.