'Hungarian Rhapsody'

There was a hiss and thump of rubber and steel before her head smashed against the windowpane, and she sensed Rhea leaping forward to prop her up and bang on the door, her thin hands smelling of patchouli, ylang-ylang, and body odour. Once, on an impulse, half urgent, half careless after the day-long accountancy Christmas lunch, and after she'd drunk at least one bottle of sauv blanc, she'd found herself in an almost empty car park at dusk, moving rhythmically beneath Accounting Solutions' best client, on her ute bonnet, him clutching his pants in one hand and his keys in the other, his wife home with his children. Lily rocked on her heels to the music, sucking back the rest of her beer. Because she owed her one, that's why. Once a week, she'd invite him for afternoon tea on the cedar table retrieved from their chook-house - the one that she'd stripped and polished herself, the one that reminded her of the wood she'd cut and sold and burned - and she'd serve it on the creamy, lace-edged cloth embroidered with sprays of Hungarian pimentos that she'd bought that morning in a small village market.