She strips naked in the bathroom one day, and stares at herself in the full-length, internally heated zero-condensation Minetti-brand mirror that frames the shower. They’ve had a lot of sex, she and Jiannis, in that shower. Last time, she thought she might even get bored of it, had never imagined she could be bored of his perfect body, his skin tanned to a dusky perfection without ever being exposed to sunlight, melanin fine-tuned to a healthy glow; he was all man. Thrusting man, he was so strong and of course she enjoyed the sex – Elevation made it hard not to have a good shag really – but since it was taken that she’d enjoy the sex he didn’t really need to try, and neither did she, and sure her body reacted but there were times when she found herself watching them writhing in the mirror, and it was all . . . It wasn’t quite what she’d . . .

So this is Harmony Meads, alone in the shower without the water running, studying her body as if for the very first time. Jiannis is late home. He’s often out feasting these days, dining with his friends and their digestive upgrades. The stink in the toilet when he gets home is incredible, barely digested slush pumped straight in one end, out the other. Harmony says she has to do “girl things” on those days, and that’s OK – there are man things, and there are girl things, and that’s the way the world works.

She runs her fingers over her stomach, perfectly flat, not stuffed with chipolata layers of muscle like some women, but feminine, soft, warm skin to brush, and a firm wall of abs just beneath, a treat to explore, a privilege to touch. She hasn’t had any pubic hair for years; but when she lathers her legs, armpits and groin with soap they seem to puff up into something different and hot, as if sensing the change in skin, the sealing touch of the nanos over the place where once hair grew.

Her nails are shellac-hard without needing treatments. Once, when she was at university, she went for a mani-pedi, and it was a real treat, and kinda peculiar, a little uncomfortable in a way, but also amazing, like when a hairdresser washes your hair before cutting. The touch of a stranger’s skin on yours, the care taken, a sensation like nothing she’s ever been able to mimic on her own since.

Sometimes on her “girl nights” she goes and has her hair washed at the local salon, though it hasn’t needed cutting or products for years. The woman who cleans her hair is chubby, overweight. She can’t afford that many upgrades but says proudly that she’s got one for her hands to keep her skin fresh and healthy, because her hands – her hands are her life.

Harmony likes that. It feels like the woman is a craftswoman, protecting a skill.

Harmony’s thighs are skinny, a sudden pop out where they meet her buttocks, the most graceful of curves down towards the tender insides of her knees. She got them modded when Jiannis started buying her the short dresses that he really likes her in. He never told her that they looked fat when she sat down, flesh expanding out either side against the seat of the chair. What were his words?