I arrived home at nine-thirty. The apartment was warm. The lights were low in the hallway. Music was playing from the bedroom, something with a beat that I didn't recognise, rhythmic and steady and entirely unlike the acoustic French playlists that Emma usually favoured.
I put my bag down. I walked into the living room.
Emma was on the floor.
She was on a yoga mat that I had never seen before, in the space between the sofa and the window where the coffee table usually sat (the coffee table had been pushed against the wall, which was a decision she had made without consulting me and which I supported entirely based on the evidence of what I was currently looking at).
She was mid-stretch, her body folded forward, her hands flat on the mat, her forehead touching her knee. She was wearing a black sports bra and dark grey yoga pants, the kind that fit like a second skin and did things to the human form that should have required a permit.
