They pull up at the lookout to take some time out of the drive, appreciating the light. The ocean has a metalic shine from the whisps and washes of colour and clouds in the sky. The air is warm, no hint of a cool change yet. A cigarette lit, hanging from mouth. Scratching of an arm as sweat beads and slides down back of neck. The crack and chink of a bottle top flicked off, dropping onto the hot asphalt, tinkering as it bounces before rolling under the car. The smell of apples tickle and fizz, glass cool to touch. There are no sounds, really. The occasional car speeds past, headlights drowning the scene for a second. No one else stops. The night is warm and still. No breeze. Just the faint and distant hum or rumble of the small waves breaking on the beach below. The sky stretches out forever. Cigarette butt joins bottle cap on asphalt, empty bottle placed on fence post. A marker of territory? "We were here. And we drank." Doors slam. The thick summer night dampens the sound of their engine roaring as they drive off into the night, further along the winding Great Ocean Road.