The man in the lobby looked away quickly, his face screwed up like he was trying to work out what two plus two was. I paused before going in to the studio, scanning the space to make sure I wasn’t anywhere near his treadmill as I mounted my own. I needed men to give me a wide berth. I needed men to not exist – which was the next best thing if I, myself, couldn’t cease to exist. I was quite happy with my shrunken world and didn’t need anybody else elbowing their way into it before I was ready.

I was totally soaked afterwards. I didn’t know it was possible to sweat as much as I had done in class. I looked around the changing room, assessing how long it would be before everyone was gone and I could have some space to catch my breath, but reasoned that by that point the next class would be starting and a whole new bunch of boot-campers would be traipsing through. Sod it, I thought. I’ll head back home sweaty. I grabbed my backpack from the locker and wove through half-naked bodies to get to the entrance.

I’d worn a Lycra pull-over jumper on my way in, but it was proving impossible to pull back on now my body was slick with sweat. Standing off to the side so I wasn’t in anyone’s way I tried to inch my arm in, using my other hand to yank the fabric up and then switching to do the same on the other side. It stuck on me, like a needy child clinging to their mummy.

‘Annie?’

I yanked my jumper over my head just as I heard my name, turning in the direction the voice came from but seeing nothing because I was … stuck. I couldn’t see anything but my Lycra-polyester blend.

‘Oh, sorry,’ the voice said – a male voice. A deep, brooding male voice. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought I knew you.’ There was a pause. ‘Do I know you?’

I wriggled around, my hands searching for the neck of my pullover so I could part it and find my way out. Trust me to be stuck in a bloody jumper, and with an audience, too.

‘I can’t see you to confirm or deny,’ I said, muffled by the fabric. The more I moved the more jammed I seemed to get. I hadn’t realized how hard I’d pushed my arms in class until I tried lifting them to get dressed. Everything was sore already. It was a good sore, but also a limiting one. I knew my muscles would get tighter and tighter as the day wore on. Would I even be able to reach up a hand to signal for the bus?