The wind howled across the red dirt of outback Queensland as Pauline stood defiantly, gazing out at nothing in particular. Her trademark fiery hair was whipped into a frenzy by the wind - not unlike her political statements. Just as she was about to declare, “Please explain!” to a passing cloud, a shadow loomed behind her.

Peter Dutton stepped into view, eyes squinting beneath a sun-faded Akubra. He wasn’t smiling. He never smiled. But Pauline could tell - something had changed. Maybe it was the way he stood with his arms crossed like a disappointed PE teacher, or maybe it was just gas. Either way, there was tension in the air. The kind of tension usually reserved for Senate hearings and Sky News panel shows.

“I thought I’d find you here,” he said coldly.

“I come here to think,” she replied, arms akimbo. “Helps me clear my head.”

He raised a suspicious eyebrow. “You’ve… been thinking?”

She scowled. “Don’t start.”

The silence between them stretched out like an ABC budget forecast. Then, suddenly, Dutton took a step closer. “Pauline… maybe we’re not so different. You shout about immigrants. I deport them. It’s… poetic.”

She blinked. “Are you flirting with me or drafting a policy platform?”

Without warning, Dutton reached into his coat and pulled out a laminated printout - a printout of the Australian Constitution, annotated with red pen and tiny hearts. “I made this… for you.”

Pauline’s lower lip trembled. “You annotated Section 44. No one’s ever done that for me before.”

And then, in the eerie glow of a nearby fracking rig, they embraced - stiffly, awkwardly, like two budget cuts colliding. Somewhere in the distance, a cane toad croaked in approval.

The next morning, Peter was gone. But he left behind a single white rose… and a note:
“Meet me in the Senate. We'll filibuster… forever.”