She says that she’s got all the time in the world. She’s still young. There’s time later to get her license. You can count the number of hours she’s had practice driving on a single hand. Straight lines through the back-streets. Easy Sunday driving with a nervous parent.

‘I can take you out, if you bring your L’s,’ you suggest, hoping that she doesn’t take you up on the offer. She doesn’t.

You forget that you’re 24. Your first thought is, okay, I don’t care and the second is fuck. If you’re going to follow your life plan, written by seven-year old you, you’re expected to have your first child in three years. A girl named Fiona. You’re also expected to marry an Andrew and live on a block of land outside of Albury. You don’t know any Andrews, except one who threw a chair at you in year 8. You’re not Facebook friends.

Some friends have babies and after a year or two the babies grow teeth and hair and rounder cheeks. Sometimes you feel like you need a baby to feel the passage of time properly. Would it slow it down? Or would it stay the same, sometimes exciting but usually stagnant like a pond?

Everyone seems to be having mini-crisis’s post-uni, but with much less drama. It’s like finishing high school again but with added responsibility because you’re more adult than you were at 18. You’ve paid bills and bought your own cereal. You’re succeeding at life.

She says you’re still young. But when does that stop, because some days you feel so old that you think about doing your will. You’re an organ donor, you’ve got the card, but you kind of hope to live a bit longer, write a bit more and find a way to slow time down.


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