21 June 2027
Monday. Midwinter in Perth, the longest night of the year, and the house still insists that my evenings with guests last one hour.
One hour! Sixty minutes from the closing of the door to the rising of the moon. Before it, a quarter of an hour for lockers and instructions. After it, another quarter of an hour for the guests to collect their nerves and hear from the gamesmaster what they missed. An hour and a half, Lake Street to Lake Street. I have sat through longer dinners with people I disliked.
I asked whether, on the longest night, my guests might stay the whole night. The house laughed in a way I did not care for.
Reginald and I walked the empty graveyard after closing. He prefers it like this. So, I confess, do I. But it is very quiet without somebody shrieking at the coffin.
— D.
