The Near Miss Read Online Free PDF

room.’
    â€˜He’s what!’
    â€˜He does it every day now. What do you do to him at night?’
    â€˜Nothing!’
    â€˜He’s always exhausted.’
    No wonder. How long had he been sneaking out to the shed to give the best of himself to his tiles, leaving the sleepy dregs for his day job, the one they relied on. Being a programmer for a global IT company earned good money, nearly twice as much as a media manager at a not-for-profit.
    â€˜He’s taking nanna naps?’ said Grace.
    â€˜Exactly.’
    â€˜Bet his boss loves that.’
    â€˜He doesn’t know,’ whispered Deepak. ‘We’re all doing our best to cover for him. But it’s getting too— Yes, thanks,’ he suddenly boomed. ‘Just send that order as requestedthankyouverymuchhaveaniceday. Excellent. Goodbye, sir.’ The line went dead.

    â€˜We could always sell the house,’ Tom said that night.
    â€˜Oh, ha ha.’
    â€˜I’m serious.’ He stood in the bedroom and stripped off his business suit as if it were alive and crafted from reptiles. He dropped the jacket on the floor and wiped his hands of it. Kicked the pants into a corner. The cat kneaded the fabric with her claws. Lucky they were millionaires, with money to treat suits like they were disposable raincoats.
    â€˜Hey, hang up your suit. The cat will wreck it.’
    â€˜Good.’ He pulled a dirty T-shirt on above his jocks and stepped into his favourite khaki overalls. ‘I hate it.’
    He had taken an entire year off work recently. He had pleaded with her for it: support us for one year and I will get the robot over the line. During this year, he had spent almost every minute in overalls. It was his uniform when he was working on the Oldbot, and he did everything in them — invent, drop Lotte to kindy, cook dinner. Finally, when that year had finished, there was the bitter disappointment of the Oldbot’s failure to sell, and once again Tom emerged in a dark suit, his hair newly cut, his grim jaw clean-shaven. He looked so handsome, despite that sullen work face.
    Now, his whole body sighed in relief. He sat on the chair with his legs spread and his arms dangling.
    â€˜Sell the house?’ She recoiled.
    â€˜I’m serious.’
    â€˜You love this house.’ Every time he came home, he slammed the door behind him and shouted it to the peeling, leaky ceiling: God, I’m sooo glad to be home. He was a practical man who would pounce on small tasks; he would replace a washer before dinner, or oil a squeaky door, as if he were kissing his home hello, the way he did his wife and his daughter.
    â€˜I want to quit my job.’
    Grace followed him out to the back shed where his workshop was, and perched on a dusty chair in the pool of light that spilled from the doorway. Cicadas creaked gently around them; the squeaky doors of warm nights. Trains hooted lonely warnings as they rattled empty along the tracks, back to suburban railyards to await the morning’s office workers. Across the neighbourhood, doors and windows swung open to catch sea-scented southerlies after a hot day; the low rattle of television news voices told of bushfires and of children starting school; preps on their first day. That would be Lotte in a year’s time. Too fast, she was growing up too fast. Dishes clanked in sinks, children called from bed for glasses of water, a mother’s voice sailed over the fence: Don’t touch the fan .
    â€˜Well, I hate my job, too, you know, Tom. I’ve hated it for fifteen years.’
    â€˜I know, baby. You don’t seem to mind hating it, but I hate that you do. That’s my dream: to make the solar ceilings and we will never have to work again. Unless we want to.’ He knelt before her, his arms along her legs, dusty overalls brushing against her black suit. ‘You used to believe in me. In the Oldbot. In my inventions.’
    â€˜Yeah, I know. I guess I