Page 8 of Birds of a Feather

To: Beth Dwyer

From: Matt Moore

Subject: Proposed road closure for installation of possum bridge

I’d known it was possible I’d hear from him;Matt helped coordinate road closures in our council area. Matt and I had met four years earlier when he coordinated a road closure for a project I managed. We were relocating a mob of landlocked kangaroos from a proposed housing development site next to a nature reserve across a major road. He was extremely helpful throughout the planning and execution of the project, and maintained excellent communication via phone and email.

I had thought this was just a commendable demonstration of professional attention to detail, but he later told me it took him several weeks to work up the courage to ask me on a date. He would call to ask me out and then lose his nerve, so we’d end up discussing the pros and cons of witch’s hats over bollards or the benefits of variable message signage over static communications displays. It was just as well it went that way; I would have declined his invitation if he’d asked me out before the project was complete. It wouldn’t have been appropriate for us to date while we were working together.

He wasn’t good-looking in the traditional sense, but I found him attractive. His lips were upturned at the corners, even when he wasn’t smiling, which made him look friendly. Having repeatedly been told I had a steely ‘resting bitch face’, I found this feature admirable.

Matt was pleasant enough company and was a competent lover. He enjoyed many of the same interests as me – hiking, birdwatching and nature documentaries – and he didn’t probe when I dodged his questions about my family. However, he compulsively bit his nails and the skin around them, which I found irritating. And he craved physical touch (his ‘love language’, apparently) and constantly entered my personal space without any prior invitation, such as to initiate hand-holding. Occasionally, I tolerated short periods of time spent with our digits entwined (on the upside, it served to stop him biting his nails). But I generally preferred to keep my hands to myself.

After about four months, we agreed that our relationship had run its course and we’d be ‘better off as friends’ (his words, not mine; I wasn’t under any illusion we would seek out each other’s company for a platonic relationship).

I opened my inbox and clicked on Matt’s email.

‘Hi Beth,’ the email began. ‘I hope you’ve been well.’

I’m getting in touch to make plans to close Banksia Highway so you can install your possum bridge. What dates did you have in mind? It sounds like a terrific project. I look forward to hearing more about it. Cheers, Matt.

I reread the email to scout for any hidden nuances or implied innuendos that suggested our ongoing work relationship would be impacted by our history. But it seemed completely innocuous. Friendly, even. Perfect.

I clicked reply.

Hi Matt,

Good to hear from you.

The curser blinked impatiently as I paused to consider the greeting. It was too familiar, I thought, for professional correspondence between two interagency colleagues, regardless of their history. Besides, I hated the unnecessary salutations people used at the beginning of emails like ‘I hope you had a terrific weekend’ or ‘Happy Fri-Yay’. They’re a waste of everyone’s time.

I backspaced over the words and continued typing.

Please find the project plan attached, which outlines the expected timeframe. The bridge is currently being manufactured and will likely be completed in the next couple of weeks, so we’re looking to install it in the second week of next month. We understand the installation will need to occur overnight, to minimise disruption to traffic. Perhaps we could set up a time to meet when you’ve had a chance to look over the project plan?

I look forward to working with you again.

I deleted the last line immediately. I didn’t want to appear overly friendly or imply any unintended eagerness to reconnect on any level other than professional.

It will be good to see you again.

Nope. That was worse. I held down the backspace key to erase it and then simply typed:

Beth

I attached the document and sent the email.

Matt was not the first man I had been with. I was with Isaac Seth for eighteen months while we were at university. Isaac and I were both keen for our relationship to be free of expectations. We agreed our undergraduate university years were not the time to be serious about anything but our studies, so our time together was spent without pressure. And, as Jarrah had kept reminding me, I could never have a long-term relationship with someone whose surname was Seth; Beth Seth would be ridiculous, should we ever get married. Of course, I had no intention of changing my surname to that of my husband, but it remained true that we were not compatible long-term.

It had been convenient to have someone to navigate the unknown seas of university with. Isaac and I mixed in the same circle of friends and had similar ideals for our study-to-play ratio, and I was glad my first sexual encounter was with someone kind and respectful. Our relationship drew to a natural close when he left to spend twelve months travelling overseas.

The ends of my relationships were nothing like the finales of Jarrah’s affairs. Finishing things with Matt and Isaac had felt like a gentle receding of the tide, whereas Jarrah’s break-ups resembled a vat of boiling oil after someone had thrown water into it: the two combusting into a spitting inferno before claiming untold collateral damage and ending in an expensive repair bill.

While I was in no rush to jump into a relationship for the sake of it, being single for as long as I had been required an annual readjustment to my five-year plan. At thirty, I was aware my biological clock was ticking, even if the alarms weren’t ringing quite yet. A uni acquaintance had recently posted to social media that she had begun the process of freezing her eggs. I got the impression from the number of typos in the post, and the fact she deleted it shortly after, that she was still under the effects of the anaesthetic from having her eggs harvested when she shared it. But it had given me food for thought. If having a baby was something I wanted, then surely I could do it without a partner. And preserving my healthy, thirty-year-old eggs made sense from a medical and reproductive perspective.

However, I wasn’t completely sure I even wanted to have a baby of my own. Since the day I’d learned about overpopulation in primary school, I’d despaired at how the human race was reproducing at an unsustainable rate. Now the impacts of climate change, and our lack of immediate and effective actions to mitigate the causes, made bringing a child into the world seem almost negligent.

Besides, I knew I just wasn’t that maternal. Whenever someone from work who was on maternity leave visited the office with their baby, all the women gathered around the infant like it was a sun-god and passed it around like a prize. If anyone tried to hand it to me, I would politely refuse and busy myself doing something else.

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