The back of a page of lecture notes produced by the library's laser printer

I know her. I get up and move slowly, deliberately, around this silent room where women sit reading magazines, drinking tea, chewing with theier mouths open. I am careful and I am polite but I look clearly at her, turning around from the kitchen bench, staring as I make my way to the fridge to look for milk.

I am a detective. In my head Identikit pictures are being assembled; would the girl I know wear those glasses? would she wear those jeans? would she still have that hair? I take not eof hte letters written in black Sharpie on her K-Mart pencil case. Could they spell 'Trini'? Could that be her name? She's reading articles on ADHD in children, and I picture a textbook PsycInfo search - 'ADHD', 'ADHD AND boys', 'ADHD AND boys OR sugar.' I'm framing her in my own Boolean operators - 'Trini AND year 12 Or a house in Wanniassa with Basement Jaxx on the stereo and an overflowing beer can ash tray.'

Do I say something? The silence in this room is purdah. We're safe in it, it would be heretical to push it aside. I spread the contents of my bag over the table - folders full of looseleaf paper, computer, bent and stained reading brick. I wonder what year she's in and if she's done psych stats yet. I wonder if she still wants to be an architect. I wonder ifher essay is due today or next week.