Jesse walks into the lounge room and sits on the couch across from me. Both the couches belong to Harper, or her family I guess, and they’re not new, but they are nicer than I expected. One is mustard yellow, the other faded grey, both very wellworn, but comfortable. I try not to think about when they were last cleaned.

I glance at Jesse and then look away. He’s annoyingly tall. I’m not good at estimating heights, but I would say six two, maybe six three. He has very broad shoulders, and he takes up a lot of space, which makes me feel irrationally irritated.

‘So,’ he says.

‘So,’ I say in reply. If he thinks I’m going to do the work of making small talk, he’s wrong. I will give him exactly as much as he gives me. No, wait, from now on I will give him just a little bit less. I will be cold, harsh, I will freeze him out, I squash every single natural urge I have to fill the silence and be polite and friendly and make a joke. I might be a people pleaser, for teachers, for parents, for friends, for the imaginary person analysing my social media likes, for my future great-grandchild who might one day unearth my diaries, but not for him. Never for him.

‘We’re living together.’ He’s tapping the couch with the fingers of one hand and I can tell he’s nervous. He can’t rely on flashing me his dimple-in-his-left-cheek smile, a look that served him well throughout high school—he knows I am impervious to his charm. I’ve seen him turn on his don’t-you-just-find-mea-little-bit-irresistible persona plenty of times before. Once at a party, he played a few chords on a guitar and held it while looking contemplatively at the sky, and people acted like he was an actual rock star for years after. Guys have it so easy. We’re always looking for ways to find them hot, charming, attractive, interesting, talented. We’ll take one small element, one moment, one single look, and build a whole fantasy around it.

‘Look, so you know, I had no idea you were the other housemate when I moved in,’ I say, the words bursting out of me. ‘I had no idea your real name is Jeremy. If Harper had said Jesse, I might have had a clue or asked more questions or something. I mean, since when is your real name Jeremy? I hear the name Jeremy, and I think of a history professor in a bow tie. Saying your name was Jeremy was very misleading. This is all your fault. I would never voluntarily live with you. I had no idea you were even planning to move to Melbourne—you knew that was always my plan. But what’s done is done and to avoid any unnecessary drama, I think—’