It took a guy as entitled as Harry to see Isabelle as the bucket of flesh she wished to be, and when he’d yelled out, “Hey you!” from his car on Glebe Point Road, Isabelle took the heckle as an invitation. They’d screwed and dated; been and ended, with the speed that these kind of double-projected, neurotic binds do. So they were breaking up, in a café, in Glebe.

Isabelle knew that they both knew what was going to happen, so she’d ordered a coffee and fled to the bathroom. Backing out already. But then, really, he was always ignoring her, commenting on other girls, pretending she was too much; that they were going too fast. He was always careful to let her know he had other options, preferences, things and girls to do. And that he didn’t care about her, of course.

Comforted, Isabelle had gone back out and declared, before she’d even sat down, “This isn’t working – I don’t want to go out with you any more!”

Harry looked momentarily flabbergasted, and Isabelle, realising she’d yelled across the crowded courtyard, quickly sat down. The waitress brought her coffee over. As she poured in the milk, she felt immeasurably better. Cheerful even. Maybe they could stay friends.

Isabelle looked at Harry – his face was blank. Then he sighed in exaggerated relief and said in a sing-song voice, like he’d narrowly missed a car while running across the road to hug her, “Well, thank God for that.”

The rest of the conversation was pleasant enough. Harry’s nonchalance miffed her a little, but it was far better than the scenes most boys made. Isabelle felt that she’d done what she needed to do.  She finished her coffee, and told him she hoped to see him soon. She left her guilt and her jacket behind.

The waitress brought Harry an open-faced sandwich cut in half. Just in case Isabelle came back for her jacket, Harry waited a full ten minutes before he started to cry.