I am Juliana. I am twenty-nine. Morena, the kind São Paulo makes without asking, brown skin that holds the late light on the walk home, black hair I wear down after work because putting it up all day is enough. I live in Pinheiros, a third floor that looks onto a street of bakeries and motorcycles, and I have a boyfriend who thinks I get out of the office at seven.

I do not. Not always.