I watched the broadcast at home. The sofa. The penthouse. Emma.
She was curled against me, her legs tucked beneath her, her feet pressed against my thigh for warmth because Emma's feet were permanently cold and my body was permanently the solution.
Her laptop was open on her knees, the second episode of The Terrace loading for upload, her headphones around her neck, one ear free so she could hear me if I spoke and one ear covered so she could listen to the audio levels of her own voice playing back on the screen.
She was wearing my Cambridge sweatshirt that I thrifted back in Manchester, the one she had stolen from my wardrobe in November and had never returned, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, her red hair in a loose bun, the reading glasses on.
She looked like a woman who had been working since six in the morning and who would work until midnight and who considered this a normal Tuesday. She looked like Emma.
