42. Robert & Christina
It’s one of those happy hours that bleeds into a dinner and then a night out. Time is slippery, imperceptible, and suddenly it’s eleven o’clock. With queues down the block for anywhere worthwhile, the boys get impatient and storm into the first venue that waves them through. They do a lap, assessing the crowd by age and attractiveness, and, unsatisfied with their options or too hammered to take someone home, they stagger their exits without a goodbye.
Robert is the last one left. Swaddled in drunkenness, he needs a line or a pill to cut into coherency, but he has neither.
He orders a Canadian Club over a Paramore song. The dance floor is half-filled with girls dressed emo. Fishnets and chokers, sooty eyeshadow. He’s getting the sense it’s one of those themed nights that have become popular on social media.
Robert is twenty today, his first birthday since moving to Perth for university. There was a forced air about the evening, drinking in excess to compensate for his own detachment, surrounded by people he hardly knows, having invited them just for the sake of it. All the boys are from the university rowing team, which he only joined for the cardio and social opportunities. He’s not very good. Weak limbs, terrible coordination, incapable of following a rhythm. He can tell the captain is hoping he’ll drop out. And after tonight’s abandonments, he might.
He’s contemplating all of this while sipping from the aluminium can when a girl asks him, “Are you here alone?” He doesn’t realise how pretty she is until his vision sharpens – a symmetrical face and severe brows. Short black hair and a neatly cut fringe. It says tidy; it says put-together but with an edge. She’s barely dressed on theme. A black singlet and jeans.
“Yeah,” he slurs. “Are you?”
“With friends. But you should dance with us.”
Robert follows her to the group in the back corner, feeling like a lotto winner. He and the girl sway in the vicinity of each other, parallel shapes in motion, and when the song changes, it’s one Robert knows the words to. He sings it directly to her. A serenade. She laughs at him in a sweet way. And then, somehow, they’re kissing, sloppy and hungry. He vaguely thinks of thanking her for choosing him, for this unwitting birthday present, but he isn’t sure if it will put her off. Prompting the question: ‘Why are you alone in a club on your birthday, you fucking loser?’ The answer is both pathetic and difficult to communicate over the ear-splitting volume of the music.
Later, he says loudly, “Do you want to get out of here?”
“I’m more of a vodka kind-of-girl,” she fires back.
“Huh?”
“What?”
“No, I said, ‘Should we get out of here.’”
“Oh!” She slow-blinks. “I shouldn’t.”
“Are you seeing someone?”
“No. Sort of. It’s complicated.”
“But you can still kiss me?”
“I can still kiss you.”
They’re sucking face again.
Later, she gives him her Instagram. Her name is Christina.
They go home separately, saying hurried goodbyes as their respective Ubers pull up to the curb. Traffic horns layer upon each other like a symphony’s crescendo. Further down, junkies start a fight. It’s a terrible backdrop for another kiss, so Christina simply touches his shoulder and then she’s gone.
Robert is wasted and giddy when he arrives back at the apartment, nearly falling over as he kicks off his sneakers. He messages Christina goodnight and that it was lovely to meet her, and then he throws up in the kitchen sink.
* * *
Christina takes the elevator down with Mark and Simon. They all speak the same private school language, which is less about vocabulary and more about tone, about articulacy. The privilege of having your thoughts valued and the space to express them. But Mark and Simon have little to contribute to anything – both painfully sheltered and subsequently shallow, obvious nepotism hires at the firm.
They cross the foyer to the bar tucked away in the corner.
Christina is polishing a martini glass with a microfibre cloth when they walk in.
Christina can feel the disbelief unfurling on her face as she approaches. Leaning forward on the slick marble bar, she puts all her weight onto her elbows and forearms. “You work here?”
“I do,” Robert says. He sets the martini glass down.
“Since when?”
“A few weeks ago. Do you come here a lot?”
“I’m part of the members’ club upstairs,” she says.
Robert makes a face, or makes the face you make when you’re trying to avoid making one. Is he judging her or is he humiliated? It’s difficult to tell with that strained smile.
“These are my colleagues,” Christina adds, gesturing to Mark and Simon.
“What can I get you guys?” He’s quickly painted over his personality with that polite and vacant hospitality charm, the one that pretends to laugh when you tell a bad joke, and nods in feigned understanding when you’re being fussy.
Christina’s insides curdle. He must be assuming she’s a wanker, and this assertion is fair because most of the members at the club are absolutely insufferable. It’s Perth’s attempt at Soho House without the cultural capital, nothing but a playpen for bankers and lawyers to sniff each other’s arses.
She thinks of something to say. “Dry gin martini with a twist? Three?”
Robert gets to work. He looks nervous, his hands shaking as he stirs with the long metal spoon. There’s something awkward or tragic about him in those wide-set ears he’ll never grow into, and in his melancholic eyes like a shelter dog hopeful for adoption. Christina is easily unimpressed by men his age, their lack of banter, of effort, the way they scour dance floors with arrogance or jadedness. But Robert is a pinprick, a jolt of odd kinetic energy. She isn’t quite sure what to make of him.
Christina pays with her heavy platinum Amex, and Robert swallows hard, eyes downcast.
The drink is very good.
* * *
In May, they go for a walk along the river where Robert used to spend his mornings cutting through the swell under the purple light of dawn. He’s quit the rowers. He’d been fooling around with a teammate and it had gotten awkward. Him wanting more, Robert wanting less. A shame, really – he was starting to get good.
Robert wonders if Christina will bring up the photo he sent her of his cock last night.
He’s never been the type to do that to a woman. He’s conscious of the social contract at play, that it should be solicited. But they’d been sending selfies back and forth – her making dinner, him at the gym – and later, after a shirtless photo in his bathroom mirror, Christina had called him a tease. And Robert, thinking it an invitation, pulled out his cock.
It wasn’t very creative. A bird’s-eye view, phone pressed against the top of his ribcage, one hand cradling it for size comparison. Flash on. The shadow of it splashed across the bathroom tiles.
Oh, she’d written. You’re packing. But she hadn’t sent anything back, and the conversation died quickly after, which made him think she might be upset or angry, if she’s even capable of such a display. He thought she might cancel their walk. But she’s unfazed, as per usual, eyeline levelled, arms swinging by her sides.
Robert is more acquainted with enthusiastic responses to his cock, particularly when it’s asked for, or when it’s sent to a man, and this has surely ruined his perception of digital social cues. He’s overly reliant on the currency of nudes, abandoning chivalry and courtship in the pursuit of instant gratification.
Christina sets off something feral within him. Her coolheadedness, maybe, or the fact that she’s wealthier and more capable. Only a year older but far more accomplished in every way. Whatever he feels, it might be a perversion, something unethical to keep leashed, lest he scares her off. He scares himself, behaving like that. Not at all himself.
It’s been the same dance since they met. Robert will be salacious, and Christina will be lazily receptive, but nothing has happened since their kiss in the basement. He doesn’t know how to push it forward without coming across as aggressive. Is she uncomfortable with his bisexuality? That would be easier, in a way. It wouldn’t be personal.
And then, as if knowing the situation requires an explanation, Christina says, “I’m not giving you mixed signals on purpose. It’s just an awkward time for me.”
Robert softens. He’s relieved by even a morsel of clarity.
“My ex is still living in my apartment. That’s why I couldn’t take you home the night we met. And that’s why I still feel weird about… pursuing things.”
“Why haven’t you kicked him out?”
“I don’t know,” Christina says. “He’s troubled.”
“Drugs?”
“Porn.” She starts to laugh. “It’s heinous. The things he watches. He couldn’t have sex with me unless he put on a video first. And he wanks in the most insane places. I feel bad for him, really. He can’t help it.”
Robert puts his hands in his pockets. “I wouldn’t need a video. To have sex with you.”
Christina shakes her head at the choppy water with a smile on her face.
* * *
The sun makes their beers glow. In the ocean-front section of the hotel bar, they discuss Robert’s recently failed relationship with a girl named Sarah. “A loose cannon, that one,” he tells Christina, going on to criticise their sex. The forced aggression of the choking and slaps. Robert felt uneasy performing the routine. “I’m usually only comfortable doing that with guys,” he explains. “It’s too risky otherwise.” And when they broke up, Sarah called him a limp-dicked Mumma’s boy and threw a water bottle at his head.
Christina thinks this is hilarious, but she’s also sceptical, wondering which details he’s omitted, which revisions he’s made. The masculine simplicity of ‘she was crazy’. Perhaps, in this situation, he wants to be seen in the best light. And the sun is tossing flecks of gold through his tawny hair. He puts on his sunglasses. He looks handsome.
Christina, feeling interrogative, asks Robert whether he might be infantilising women by only having vanilla sex with them. Robert asks her what infantilising means. “Never mind,” she says.
The conversation inevitably drifts to the topic of Christina moving to Canberra in two weeks. Robert makes a joke about how secretive and imperative her new job must be. That’s why she can never explain it properly.
Christina doesn’t deny this characterisation. It is imperative, she supposes, as a lawyer for the federal police, but it’s easier to leave it at that. The extra bits can come off as cagey or attention-seeking.
“I’m going to tell everyone you’re a spy,” he announces.
“No one will believe you.”
“My mates will. They’ve heard all about you.”
“Really? What have you said?”
“That we’re in a slow-burn will-they-won’t-they friendship.”
She grins. “I quite like the sound of that.”
“You’ve fucked it all up by leaving.”
“It’s only for a year.”
The mood grows sombre. Even if they only see each other every few months, it’s still a blow to lose a friend. Christina doesn’t have many. She knows she’s an unavailable person, and that it reads as a lack of care or effort. There are only so many times she can apologise for flaking or failing to respond to a message before it loses its bite. Robert has always understood who she is, what she is incapable of, and he’s never makes her feel bad about it. She wishes she could articulate how much this means. How much he means.
Robert folds his body up in his chair, almost defensively. “I might not be here by the time you come back.”
“I don’t doubt it. But I won’t make you wait.”
“You could. If you wanted to. I’d probably do anything you asked.”
Christina scrunches her face up, wishing he wouldn’t say things like that. It’s a bit painful. And then, redirecting, she sighs. “Are you going to be okay?”
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes I’m concerned by the choices you make.”
“Okay, Mummy.” He rolls his eyes. Petulant, so unlike him. She must’ve struck a nerve. “I appreciate the sentiment, but… ”
She throws up her hands in surrender. At least she said something. She feels mildly absolved.
* * *
He’s told to wait against the tree. Pants around his ankles, arse out. The cool night air licks at the exposed flesh. He should be aroused, but he’s afraid; by such a vulnerable position, in such a public place. The park is infamous for late-night cruising, so it’s highly likely that someone other than the person he’s arranged to meet will happen upon him, see his half-nakedness as consent, and proceed to fuck him.
Rustles from the bush makes his skin crawl, and he throws a glance over his shoulder as a shape approaches, relaxing somewhat when the face of the man in the pictures comes into view. He’s a bit older, beefy, with a beard. Not Robert’s usual type of destitute twinks or virulent women. But he sounded playfully perverted over messages, and now he’s getting on his knees in the dirt and eating Robert out. The bristle of his facial hair has Robert clutching the bark, moaning, head bowed, chin tucked, almost in prayer.
When he’s fucked, the pain is wonderfully dizzying.
* * *
Christina keeps her face blank. She’s aware she’s being studied for her reaction. They want her to be strong and objective. To focus on the facts.
She shuffles through the photos and looks up. “How many are there?”
“Thousands,” her colleague replies. “Hundreds of thousands.”
It’s incomprehensible how people could do this to little kids.
This is one of those instances where she thinks she should quit her job. Staying feels psychopathic, but she’s become so good at compartmentalising that she’s close to feeling nothing. But sometimes she will go home after work and throw up or cry or just turn on the television and eat a bag of chips. Sometimes she will pour herself a vodka and fall asleep in her clothes.
* * *
The next time Robert and Christina see each other, it’s an icy Melbourne winter, eighteen months after their goodbye drinks. The bar is only just opening when they arrive. At 5 p.m. on a Wednesday, the sky already dark. Chairs are stacked on tables and there are still plugs in the beer spouts. The bartender is cutting limes.
Christina’s hair has grown out past her shoulders. It makes her look younger.
Robert has the same haircut as always; short back and sides. But when he takes off his puffer, he has a new tattoo of a stinging nettle that takes up the length of his forearm.
“Two whiskey sours,” Christina says.
Robert flushes. There aren’t many people in his life who take charge like this – who pick the venue and set the time and order without asking. It would be emasculating if it wasn’t so thrilling when she does it.
“I’ll bring them over,” the bartender tells Christina, which means he’s going to take his time.
“You’ve been working out,” Christina says when they sit down.
“Mac’s an actor,” Robert says. “It’s a lot to keep up with.”
“Are you guys…?”
“He’s my boyfriend, yeah.”
She puts on a melancholy smile. “I thought it was just a sex thing for you. The way you talked about it.”
“So did I,” Robert shrugs. “It all happened a bit quick. “He told me he loved me on caps.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Did you say it back?”
“Not yet. I suppose it’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s chemically induced.”
“Love is a chemical,” she offers. And then she frowns. “I could never date someone who parties like that.”
Robert’s lips twitch. “It was never your thing.”
“I mean legally. I have to self-report to the department if myself or anyone I know come into contact with it. They won’t do anything, but it becomes an ethical minefield.”
“That must be great for your social life.”
“What social life?” she jokes.
It’s electric to be living in the same city again, though they will surely hang out the same amount as they did in Perth – seasonally, with sprinkles of Instagram messaging when they’re bored or lonely.
It takes the bartender ten minutes to bring them their drinks. They watch each other over the rim of their glasses, and when Christina lowers hers, she has a line of foam on her top lip. Robert fights the urge to reach over, take her face delicately in his hands, and wipe it clean.
“I’ve always admired your sense of purpose,” Robert tells her. “You’ve worked really hard your whole life.”
Christina shakes her head in refusal. “I admire you,” she counters, licking her lips clean of the foam. “You keep changing. Your job, your house, your relationship. I stay the same.”
“‘Changing.’” He tastes the word in his own mouth. “I don’t know… Drifting or sinking, maybe.”
She softens. “Are you depressed, Robert?”
He pauses for some time before he says, “You’re the only one who calls me by my government name. You and my mother. To everyone else, it’s just Rob.”
“That’s far too pedestrian for you.”
And they’re both glad to pretend she hadn’t asked the question.
* * *
Robert does the heroin because Mac is doing the heroin. He’s already doped up from coke, from ketamine, from that pink powder named with letters and numbers, and he doesn’t feel the pinch of the needle when it goes in.
“You’ve got good veins,” Mac’s friend says, dispensing the fluid. It’s a Monday morning, which means they’ve been partying for three days straight. Robert hasn’t eaten in all that time.
He despises Mac’s friends. They’re the sort of cis, white gays who relish picking at each other’s scabs. They bully each other into nights out, piling into disabled cubicles to snort coke before ending up in each other’s beds and relaying the graphic details over drag brunch. They’ve been trying to fuck Mac and Robert for months. Together, or separately, they’ll attempt any avenue – groping them on the dance floor, kissing them, laughing when Robert pulls away. Monogamy is either hilarious or misguided.
Robert can’t remember who brought out the heroin. They’d made the idea sound impromptu, while conveniently having the supplies at hand: durable syringes; alcohol wipes; an elastic strap. An objection briefly crossed Robert’s mind, but it held no shape. And he’s particularly pliable on an empty stomach.
“This is crazy,” is all he manages.
Mac is splayed out on the chaise lounge, staring at the ceiling.
It’s a lucid experience; unlike anything Robert has tried before. Floating down a lazy river, his body sticky and warm like hot honey, oozing and dripping all over the carpet. He doesn’t feel real. Nothing does.
The next day, he stares at the track mark in the crook of his elbow with disgust.
“I really hate that we did that,” he says to Mac, who’s next to him in bed, swathed in a fluffy blanket. They're both suicidal on the comedown.
“You always say you want to try everything once,” Mac mumbles.
“But it’s never just once, is it?”
“I dunno. In a way it was a new level of intimacy. Like… something was inside of you and then it was inside of me. We did it together, and we came out on the other end.”
Robert shudders. It all feels miles above the other reckless things he’s done.
He breaks up with Mac days later but hesitates to tell Christina. Contemplating the appropriate amount of time for that kind of text. Not wanting her to feel like she’s his backup plan, his safety net.
Time stretches.
And then Christina is dating a man named Thomas with a doughy face and wiry hair. Kind eyes, big blue ones. Robert can see them in the recent photos she posted on Instagram. It’s hard to pinpoint if there was any overlap – after he and Mac broke up and before she and Thomas got together. Must have happened within weeks.
* * *
Christina is in Rome with Thomas, sitting outside a tourist trap restaurant near the Trevi Fountain. All the adjacent restaurants have their tables spilling out across the cobblestone courtyard, amalgamating beneath the fervent sun, so there’s little distinction to where one dining section ends and another begins. It takes twenty minutes to flag down the waiter.
Thomas asks him for fizzy water.
Christina can tell the waiter hates the way he says it, his lips pursing as he listens. Fizzy water in that broad Aussie accent, second-hand embarrassment crawling down her back.
She orders an Aperol and the cacio e pepe. Thomas orders a pizza.
“We could share,” he says, hopeful.
“I’m happy with mine,” she clips back.
Coming up on a year together, it’s their first big trip as a couple, a kind of crash course into how they handle adaptability as a unit, testing the elasticity of the relationship, stretching the band. Christina can feel how taut it’s become, how thin. One flick, one pull. That’s all it will take. And it’s not Thomas’s fault necessarily – she’s broken promises, she’s let him down, swearing there would be no working over the holiday, only for him to find her in the bathroom with her satellite phone and laptop. It was like she’d been caught with a lover, the way he berated her. The betrayal in his eyes. “You can’t help yourself,” he’d said. “It’s so sad.” She wants to feel guilty, but nothing penetrates. There’s no on and off switch. It’s a numbness carefully constructed over many years.
She can tell she’s getting burnt, and she tugs at the neckline of her camisole. Adjusting the straps, accepting the inevitable tan lines. Thomas is transfixed by the busker performing on the other side of the courtyard. His tote bag is draped lazily on the back of his chair, hanging open, begging to be stolen from. He wouldn’t even notice.
She will never understand how she always seems to attract men with no survival instincts.
* * *
Robert and Brooke go to Christina’s apartment for pre-drinks. It’s in South Yarra, with high ceilings and wooden floors. The furniture is heavy and luxurious; leather and velvet, oak and glass.
“Wow,” Brooke says pointedly. Robert shoots her a warning look.
“It’s just a rental,” Christina says, as if it changes anything.
She offers to make them all negronis. Brooke asks for the bathroom, and Christina points her down the hall.
When they’re alone, Robert says, “This is funny. You playing bartender.”
“I owe you for all the martinis in Perth. No one’s ever made one as good.”
He blushes.
“Brooke seems great.” She’s using a metal jigger to measure out the quantities, and then dumping them into the large mixing glass filled with ice. “Have you guys slept together?”
“Luckily, she’s a lesbian,’ Robert says. “We’re just housemates.”
The spoon makes a musical clink as it circles the glass. It’s entertaining to watch her for a moment. Neither of them needs to fill the silence. Until Christina says without looking at him, “Single life looks good on you.”
“On both of us.” And then Robert folds his arms. “Have you heard from Thomas?”
“Not a word.” She looks up. “Have you heard from Mac?”
“Yeah, actually. He messaged yesterday.”
“No kidding.”
“He’s been in and out of rehab. It was one of those long apologies they make addicts send to everyone they’ve hurt.”
“Did you think you were…” She contemplates how to word it. “Headed that way?”
“I’m too broke for professional help. I just had to sort it out on my own.” His eyes have a far-off quality to them. “My mum would’ve loved it though. She’s so affectionate when I’m sick. Actually, she’s only affectionate when I’m sick.”
Christina puts down the spoon and stares at him. “That’s a bit dark.”
“Maybe I get off on it. Being taken care of.”
“Do you want me to take care of you, Robert?”
Robert tilts his head as if to say, of course I do, and Christina lowers her chin as if to say, you know I shouldn’t, and Robert frowns as if to say, then why would you say that?, and Christina shakes her head as if to say, I don’t know, and in this pantomime, Brooke returns, loudly announcing that she loves the Aesop hand soap, and that she and Robert must buy some for their bathroom.
Christina spins a few vinyls, they drink a few drinks, and when they get to the bar, Brooke dances with her hands in the air and Robert and Christina sway next to each other. It’s a nice level of inebriation. Humming in the body.
A song comes over the loudspeakers by the artist they first kissed to. It’s not the same song though. This one is about being stuck in an unhappy relationship and masturbating to the thought of someone else.
“You know,” Robert says in Christina’s ear, “When I was with Mac, this song always made me think of you.”
Christina looks amused. She was half-expecting a comment of this nature. “Well. I’m very flattered.”
Robert realises he’s drunker than he thought. He always behaves like a fool around her. But then they’re dancing, facing each other, and he decides to put his hands on her hips. Her eyes are on his mouth. And then Robert leans in and kisses her. His pliant tongue makes her breathless, and she pulls him closer, flashing back to the first and only time it ever happened, when they were kids and everything was easy, and yet impossible.
Christina breaks off, sighs, and says to Robert, “I don’t kiss people unless I want to sleep with them. And I don’t sleep with people unless I want to date them.”
“We’re just friends,’ Robert says soothingly. “Don’t overthink it.”
“But I need to. I need to think about it.”
“Okay.” He laughs awkwardly, wondering if this is her way of finally rejecting him.
For a while they dance with other people – Christina with Brooke, Robert with another man – but at the end of the night, when the bar closes and they’re calling their Ubers, Christina asks him if he’s getting in with her or Brooke.
“Um.” Robert frowns, eyes darting between the cars. “You?”
Christina nods like there was a right and a wrong answer and he chose correctly.
Brooke ducks into the car, oblivious to what’s occurred, only texting Robert when she realises he isn’t in the backseat.
They’re silent on the way back to Christina’s apartment.
Robert’s mouth is dry. He can’t believe this is happening. Whatever this is.
Christina stares out the window, watching the city hurtle by. She can’t figure out what she feels, what she wants. It’s all muddied and out of reach.
They go directly to Christina’s bedroom. She turns on an orange lamp and they start taking off their clothes. Her face is flushed. Her body is lean and sharp except for her full breasts, and her nipples are darker than Robert imagined they would be. He pulls her towards him, taking one into his mouth, sucking on it. Her fingers stroke the back of his head during this, and an ache ripples outward through his chest, like a repressed sob. Sharp inhale from Christina as she detaches herself to fetch a condom, and Robert can’t form a coherent word when she slips it on him. Through Robert’s jagged breaths and half-shaped grunts, she straddles him and lowers herself all the way down.
Robert’s brows knit together in ecstasy. She’s so warm.
He feels so full inside of her. She makes a noise when that spot gets pressed.
He cups her face. She arches her spine. It’s so tender and gentle. Sharing oxygen, saliva. Faster now, her fingers clutch the sheets as the love making slips into fucking.
“Kiss me,” she says.
Robert slaps her across the face.
She’s so shocked she just stares at him blankly. Her body goes still. He immediately knows something is very wrong.
“Fuck,” he says, pulling out. “Was that too hard?”
Christina sits up and holds the side of her face. The sting is so visceral it strips everything bare. “I said ‘kiss me.’”
“Oh my God.” His blood cools. “I heard you say ‘hit’.”
“You’re fucked in the head.” She slides off the mattress and quickly puts her clothes back on. Tears well up in her eyes.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t hear you, I’m sorry.” His voice cracks. “Christina. Please.”
And then she leaves the room.
Robert pulls off the condom and tosses it in the bin, then waits for her to come back, staring at the ceiling fan. His bottom lip trembles and he bites down to stop it moving. He listens for her footsteps, for the creak of the door. But the only sound is his heartbeat in his ears. Hours of relentless thumping.
Dawn creeps under the blinds and bleeds across the floor.
They’re never going to talk about it. He already knows this and part of him is relieved.
* * *
Christina sits on the balcony until the sun comes up. Hot air balloons drift through a pink sky. The city is rubbing its eyes, blinking awake.
She imagines Robert pacing in her bedroom. She imagines him punching a pillow. She imagines him working up the nerve to come out here and talk to her. She imagines him half-dressed, running out the door.
Nothing penetrates. The slap did, briefly, but she refuses to give it shape, a body. It will just lead to other places. And yet there is something liberating about knowing things for certain.
* * *
Christina will continue to imagine him. She will do it often, particularly in the spaces between action and purpose – on the train out of the darkening city with her forehead pressed against the carriage window, and later, pushing inside her apartment, shrugging off the draft that whistles down the empty hall. She will pour herself a vodka. She will open up a bag of chips. She will imagine Robert losing himself somewhere, and she won’t cry.
Oscar Revelins is the Melbourne-based author of Delicate Friends, with short fiction awarded and nominated by The Varnish Prize for Fiction, the Peter Carey Short Story Award, the My Brother Jack Literary Awards, and the Commonwealth Short Story Prize.