I watched two squat men pouring the tarmac for the road. The molten asphalt oozed from a custom built wheelbarrow and swelled and bloated into its sharply pre-cut grave. A machine I couldn't see had chiselled the perfect rectangle into the old road surface and now it was being refilled by hand. One of the men smoked, the cigarette hanging flaccid from his curled bottom lip, he wore that permanent frown that gives a person an an air of seriousness and commitment to hard work. His stomach spilled over the waistband of his canvas shorts, pulsing like a swarm of bees inside a pillowcase underneath his white t-shirt. His co- worker was stocky but not so plainly fat. He was barrelled like an old labourer, someone with strength but not stretch; an intransigent character, stiff and full like a small balloon with too much air inside.

The men were holding one handle of the small wheelbarrow each. With both hands they were heaving in the least spectacular way; a repetitive gesture, a choreographed movement that they had long ago lost the passion for. Amateur dancers doing it for the money - drained of the lust for fame, or the perfection of their craft. But they strained dully together. They read one another's unenthusiastic bodies and they pushed in time, as if the movements they performed, void of personal importance, were still small gifts to be given to another. Like a magic trick performed by a tired clown for a child. They danced for each other. They cocked their heads to hear the base of the music across the river and stepped into its heavy distant thump. They read the veins in one another's necks like raised cursive. They heard one another's breath like the whispers of ghosts. They pushed together without words. Straining, they pulsed with each other's blood. The sheen of their sweat bound them tight in my view, conjoined twins, each with one handle.

Two and one man's body drumming, glistening like the midnight sky that they poured out from the wheelbarrow. Two men beating in time with a thousand million sparkling stars in wet tar, pouring their one heart into the road to grow dull and flat.