I am Emily. I am twenty-seven. I live in Fitzroy North, a first-floor flat that takes the tram bell through the glass, and I run before work because if I don't the day stays in my shoulders. Light brown hair, tied up so it stays off my neck. People say athletic as if that settles the question of my body. It doesn't. My breasts are small. A handful, if the hand is honest, and the nipples show through anything thin the moment I am cold or the moment I am not. What running gave me without asking is my ass: high, hard, the thing that ends a man's sentence when I walk away from him in shorts. I know. I pretend I don't.

Theo has been almost for four months.