It is Saturday. I have an appointment at 2.20pm. I don’t know what for.

All I know is this: performance art.

Arrive early at the Art Space and wander for 10 minutes or so.

Appointment in the booth, but booth is occupied.

Two voices. One female. The other male.

2.25pm. Audrey, who I am meeting, pops out, as does the unknown male.

They say goodbye. He leaves. I enter.

My session, appointment, show, whatever…begins.

We talk – I know Audrey from the past.

The past: Christchurch.

Right hand lies open. Fingernails ready to be painted.

Covered in red nail polish. Red like blood. Dark dark dark red.

A table laid out with assorted items. Pick up to 5, she says.

Boost, googly eyes, charcoal, rope. Why?

I don’t know.

She strips. Turns her back towards me.

Her ass is covered in eyes.

Eyes (mine) watching her ass. Her eyes (ass) watch me.

Stare at the ass and the ass stares back at you.

I draw her.

Tick tock…boost fizzes, counting down like an hourglass.

We speak of our art briefly as this goes on.

We both wish for audiences to be less passive.

More… involved.

More… engaged.

More… culpable.

Artaud is mentioned.

Maybe a cinema or theatre of…

Desire.

She hands me the script.

A prescription, perhaps.

A script to live by, perhaps.

A gift, perhaps.

The show is over. Life goes on.