Emma was on the sofa with me. Not next to me. On me.
Her legs across my lap. Her back against the arm of the sofa. A mug of coffee balanced on her stomach. My left hand resting on the warm bare bit of her thigh between the hem of the long T-shirt she had pulled on at half six and the top of her knee.
The yoga pants she had got dressed in twenty minutes ago, when she had wandered out of the bedroom to find the coffee I had already started, were doing the thing yoga pants do.
Black. Worn. Six months of six o'clock starts on the machines in the spare room had built a body under them that the older joggers in her drawer no longer fit properly, and she had moved on to the new ones in May and had not gone back.
They sat low on her hips and high everywhere else.
