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she flops for a bit, slurps her tea and fades back into sleep. It is then impossibleto wake her until dusk. 1 sit and write postcards ... Dear George ...Ahhh Anin. 1 look through the throng of people and lights. Where is she?1 freeze. My secret fear is to lose her ... in the middle of Manila, Baguio,Sydney ... to lose her! What would life be like without her, by myself? 1 shouldermy fears aside. 1 have to look after her. She's so vulnerable, so trusting ... she needsme. 1 feel liberated as 1 remember this. And where am I? 1 shove my hands deepinto my pocket, feel for my wallet and tear up the road after her.She is nearing the lobby of our hotel when 1 see her stop perfectly still. 1 beginto study the poise of that stance when she rips away from my photo-freeze eyesand starts to run. Her short legs pump at the pavement. Arms move in a franticrhythm of their own. My gaze jumps ahead. There's a man in a long black coat.Sunglasses. At 6 in the morning. He holds out his arms and enfolds her. This islife with Anin. For a minute she is gone, then she turns to me."Jane," she says with a flick of her hair, her eyes round and serious. "This is mybest friend from Sydney."Sometimes the banality of her comments surprise me. 1 usually choose to interpretthem as products of an uncomplicated, unpretentious mind - the mind 1 don't have.That 1 want. Today 1 prefer my own.When we arrive back at the hotel 1 ask her if she would prefer 1 move to a roomof my own. She shrugs."If you want to.""Well 1 don't think Pop Star plans on sharing with me."Anin laughs softly."You know he thinks we are lovers."I'm shocked. And look at her quizzically."Well aren't we?""No. We just cuddle each other. That's all."I'm tired and confused and the shower doesn't work. That night, lying on myback watching the cockroaches scamper around the ceiling, 1 am forced to admitthat the warm, intimate relationship, the secret pursuit of the last few months didn'texist. Well, not in Anin's mind. And that starts me thinking . . .22 WESTERLY, No.2, JUNE, 1989