Australian Open

On the TV, tennis is played by two women.

The women look lame from up high, scribbled women. Flanking the court are seven or eight pink you-can’t-tell-whats, like little electrons, springing back and forth between plays of the women, retrieving the yellow ball and running off. The ball falls out of play again and another comes running.

The two are in the room with the TV, watching the women play tennis. The top woman wins a point over the bottom woman, footage from the man-on-the-ground camera then feeds into the broadcast. The real-looking woman wipes her forehead with a towel. Standing with the woman, a highlighter-pink smudge stresses the automatic environmental RGB balance.

Lucy slaps the couch arm but says nothing.

After seconds that feel like old seconds, simpler, heavier, a teenage girl immerges from the pink blur like a ghost wearing the aura, saintly still.

Cane Toads jump around outside of the Tennis stadium in Australian dirt. Huge numbers and destroy two species of insect and one of rabbit in one morning. Forty die in one hour from eating poisonous bees asleep on the sand.

Tension is high in the Tennis stadium as the last yellow ball is catapulted from the top to the bottom. Twenty seconds fighting. Suddenly, it's flung high and falls just over the line. A few scream from relief and some out of anger and everyone else just looks and listens.

A group of cane toads are hit four at once by an ambitious motorcyclist and a babe riding bitch howling.