I am walking across the park to De Carle Lane which will spit me out onto Albion Street. My name is Vicente and I have change jingling in my pocket, enough to drag down my jeans, which are new, stolen from the Bench store in the city, even though they were on sale. They are shiny and black and haven’t started to go baggy. I need to get rid of some of the change so I’m heading for Albion Street Corner Market where I will buy unfiltered Camels. This is what I am thinking as I am crossing the park in a darkness as matt as my jeans and I feel little effervescent bubbles escape up behind me in my wake, and I am imagining these are the coins in my pockets.

I haven’t lived here long. It’s a place where I never speak Chilean. Sometimes I become conscious I am only visible as a second version of myself, one that has been overlapped and reinvented.

The man behind the counter is Turkish but he looks like Putin. I buy cigarettes and gum. I also decide to buy a handful of dried figs, then stand outside and smoke half a cigarette. Big plumes of smoke rise up around me mixed with condensed breath as the air is very cold and still. It’s late and the few people around step off the last tram. I cross the tracks heading towards the house I share with two students but I don’t go in. I keep walking and decide to sit for a while at the empty, blue oval and remember Alemba.