There is a girl walking along the street. She does not look much older than sixteen. Rory watches her as she walks the length of Baker, turns and walks back again. Occasionally she pauses to look across the street, towards the shopping centre, straining to see ... what? Rory does not know: he is puzzled.

She halts again momentarily when she is approached by a man with white hair. Apparently she has asked him for directions because Rory sees him gesticulating and her nodding, then she crosses the road, turning off Baker into Davis Avenue. More curious now, Rory follows her. Taking his future into his own hands. It is about time.

   "Rory," says Rory to the girl, extending his hand in a friendly manner. Unruly blonde hair (natural?) frames her thin, angular face and shrewd green eyes. She takes a step backwards, perhaps feeling threatened by his approach, but saying nothing. Black shirt, pants, socks and shoes. Black handbag. She takes two more steps backwards and makes a peculiar warbling/purring noise somewhere in her throat.

   "Rory," says Rory again, "and your name?" he ventures hopefully after a silence of several seconds. An icy look is followed by a slap in the face. The proverbial ego severely bruised, Rory covers up.

   "I'm sorry. I thought I knew you from somewhere..." Rory waits for some form of acknowledgement, receives none. Rory, however, is persistent. Perhaps too much so for his own good.

   "I'm sorry. No, no I'm not. Why did you hit me?" He can look like a bloodhound when he tries. He is trying now. It shows.

   "I felt like it." A pure, simple statement. Said sincerely, intended to captivate. It does.

   "Do you always hit people just because you feel like it?" Rory, hippies' child, brought up with Peace and Love and sunflower seeds, has a fascination for mindless, unprovoked violence. Ironic, really, as he almost always provokes violence in those around him.

   "Only if I don't know them," she murmurs, skipping backwards a little. "I don't talk to strangers, see. I don't take silly risks."

   "If you got to know me then I wouldn't be a stranger any more." Rory is hopeful. Hopeful but not too quick. His face is slapped again and he stands, wavering slightly, on the cracked pavement of Davis Avenue. He is getting funny looks from everyone else there, although the girl receives no odd looks, he notices.

   "I'm sorry." Rory, hippies' child, has many problems. One is apologitis. He can't stop apologising, especially when he shouldn't. The girl is already running down Davis Avenue, and so doesn't hear him. He follows her for a while, but loses sight of her somewhere around Wales Road, and goes home instead.

Time passes. At four o'clock comes the predictable, never-changing call from Simon ("Sorry, mate, not tonight. Met this really hot chick, see...") - which Rory has almost come to see as a normal part of the day.

At four-thirty Rory tires of watching early 70s game show reruns and goes out for a walk. At four-forty-five exactly he sees the girl again, this time strolling past the shops on the Plaza. She is still wearing the same black outfit but looks a little happier than when he first saw her that morning.

Optimistically dismissing the morning's experience as an unfortunate aberration, Rory tries, yet again. Mustering his masculine charm and tucking in his shirt, he approaches her.

   "Hello. We met earlier. This morning. Remember?" Rory offers his hand, but from a distance, mindful of the previous dressing-down.

   "Yes. I'm sorry about that, but I get taken by these moods."

   "I, er, that is, um... What are you doing in Lightning Ridge? Um, I mean, I haven't seen you around before. Are you a tourist?" Rory flusters, unsure. She is calm, collected. Predictably.

   "Do I look like a tourist?" she demands, and Rory catches the tone of her voice, interprets (looks her up and down, looking her over). Not appreciating the scrutiny she takes a large, deliberate step away from him.

   "No, I guess not." Rory wonders what he is doing. She catches his eye. Skillfully.

   "Hickup." She laughs. At Rory. Blushing, Rory tries to assert himself.

   "I beg your pardon? What do you mean, 'Hiccup'?" Rory is confused. It shows. It is obvious that he lacks. Something.

   "Hickup," she laughs again, "is my name. Hickup. With a K. Do you like it?" Serious, now, she steps closer. Rory, hippies' child, is not surprised by the name, but is uncomfortable anyway, and steps back. And stops.

   "It's all right. I guess. It could be worse..."

   "If you don't like it all that much you can call me something else instead. I don't care." Sighing. Pouting. Rory finds this most attractive (as it was intended).

Rory feels suddenly rather peculiar, as if time has taken a break and he and Hickup exist outside normal time, normal space. Then he becomes aware that she is speaking to him again...

   "...go through some names and I'll tell you to stop when you say one that I like. Are you listening to me?"
   "What? Oh, yes, I'm listening. Um, Kate ... Jenny ... Illana ... Hilda ... Patricia ... Olivia ... Natalie ... Mary ... Denise ... Carol ... Beverley ... Annie ... Rachel-"
   "Stop. Rachel. I like that. You can call me Rachel."
   "Okay, er, Rachel. Um, are you doing anything tonight?"

   "Nothing I can't cancel." Knowing eyes. Knowing look.

   "Great. Great. 'Cause I'd like to take you out tonight. Since you're not busy." Rory's great line. Greatly practised, that is. Seldom used.

   "Out? Out where?" Mocking, suspicious.

   "Oh, you know, just around. We could go up to The Junction for coffee-"
   "You've got to be bloody joking! Lightning Ridge is a hole!"
   "But Hick- I mean, Rachel, there isn't anywhere else."

   "Exactly!" And she is walking again, away from him. She turns off the Plaza into London Street, does not look back.

   "Lightning Ridge is a lot of holes, actually." mumbles Rory to no-one at all, then goes home to have a secret weep on the back step and wonder, not for the first time, whether things will ever change.