Were you with a girl at the footy?my father asks while weighing downon a milker. His large, freckled handlike a stone on the claw of the machinesdraining a back quarter of an old Jerseyreluctant to give. I lean against a postdarkened and polished by our shoulders.No, I was just going for a walk. He looksat me, adds, I saw you behind the trees.My mouth begins to dry and my heartpicks up its beat. N ... (read more)