Free Unzipped by Nicki Reed Page B

tram to work, answer emails, run up to the Supreme Court library—it is the season for unreported judgments—obtain obscure case law from the US, and perform a raid for unreturned books during Tuesday lunch. Processing, cataloguing, loose-leaf filing. I share a lift with a bike courier. A giant, in sunglasses, helmet, gloves, with his radio up too loud. I almost ask if he knows BJ, decide not to. Of course he does, then what?
    Tram home.
    Watching TV makes me think of BJ—she has one— reading makes me think of BJ—she has books on her desk. Her desk is at a ninety-degree angle to her bed. Her bed is the place where we went from accidental to deliberate.
    The tick, tick, tick of the zip on my laptop bag being the exact feel of the unzipping of BJ’s jacket. I can’t leave it alone.
    Three weeks since the couch, I brush my teeth and think of her. I didn’t stay there but I saw her toothbrush in her bathroom. I miss her.

    Friday afternoon, the relocating complete, smooth, a week of work, and nothing but missing BJ behind me, I act. I made a stop at the florist on the way to work this morning. It’s after lunch and most of my floor is in the boardroom saying goodbye to Ron from accounts. I’ll join them when I’m off the phone.
    ‘Jumbo Couriers. This is Liz.’
    ‘Um, hello, I’d like to book a courier.’
    ‘Do you have an account with us?’
    I’d checked. We use CityFast, only cars, no bikes.
    ‘No, I’ll pay cash on delivery. I have a few stipulations, this might be a bit out of the ordinary.’
    Liz sighs, get on with it, ‘Picking up from?’
    ‘Botanical Bounty, the florist, they’re at…’
    ‘We have their address,’ the clipped tone of a busy Friday afternoon, ‘What are we picking up?’
    ‘A bouquet of irises in the name of Peta Wheeler.’ BJ’s favourite: the deep purple plume, the yellow throat, the green tallness of the stems.
    ‘Deliver to?’
    ‘Umm, the north-west corner of William and Bourke streets at ten past five?’
    I’m hot, embarrassed. I don’t know this person, nobody can see me, but this type of call is a first for me.
    ‘Ready for pick up?’
    ‘From 4.30.’
    ‘That’s an express service. Ten dollars, on job number 146C.’
    Liz takes an I’m-saying-goodbye-now breath but I get in before her.
    ‘There’s one more thing.’
    ‘Yes.’ So sweetly, I know she’s annoyed.
    ‘Could I request a particular courier? BJ?’
    ‘It’s normally first available.’
    ‘I’ll pay extra. I can go to twenty, no, to a hundred dollars.’
    I’m not eating much. I’m not going out, no movies, no theatre. I’m at work or in bed. I have money.
    ‘Relax. I’m having a lend,’ Liz says. ‘We get requests like yours all the time. Especially for BJ. She’s reliable and doesn’t take crap.’
    ‘So, it’s ten dollars at ten past five. Thank you.’

    I’m waiting outside the shoe shop and I hear her before I see her. The static of her radio, I catch a few words, it might as well be another language.
    She pulls up, snaps her foot out of a pedal, stays on her bike and leans so her foot can reach the floor. Slides her satchel to the front, it’s big, but some of the irises are squashed. She hands them to me.
    ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘You shouldn’t have.’
    ‘No, you should have.’
    She’s wearing sunglasses. She’s not making this easy and I don’t blame her.
    ‘They’re for you.’ I hand them back. She smooths the paper, straightens the petals.
    ‘You know florists have people who can deliver this stuff? Interflora? Heard of them?’
    ‘I needed to see you.’
    The city smells like traffic and McDonald’s.
    ‘Obviously.’
    ‘Can you take your sunglasses off? I want to see your eyes when I beg forgiveness and ask you to dinner.’
    She removes them, hooks them into the top of her helmet. Better.
    ‘I don’t want any dinner.’
    Can’t stop looking into those eyes.
    ‘What, forever?’
    ‘What do you want, Peta?
    ‘I can’t stop thinking about