Slowly, I become aware of the saccharine tones of her voice. Soft kisses to my cheeks and a nuzzle of my nose say goodbye. I roll over and close my eyes again.

I re-awake mid-morning, feeling no dread. I get up and shower, eat breakfast and spend the morning leisurely reading Fitzgerald, writing stories and surfing the web. I eat lunch, pack leftovers for work and walk to the train station. It is one-thirty.

I board the three trains to reach Redfern Station. I walk up the stairs, avoiding human traffic. I slot my fortnightly ticket through the machine, and cross the road between the police station and where the clock tower meets the sky. The weather is clear.

I board the bus and slump my head on the window to watch the glum city folk stroll by. Soon I am one of them, walking under the shade of gum trees. Sometimes other women catch my eye, boring me instantly. I reach the old sandstone building and swipe my key-card to open the gate. One more swipe and one more staircase and I’m at my desk for night shift. I refrigerate the leftovers, pour a drink of cordial, and log in to see what show I’ve been assigned to. I plug in and put on my headphones. I open the software, press play and listen. I transcribe words for the screen – captions – following house standards, fact-checking, and ensuring correct spelling and grammar. The work benefits mostly the deaf and elderly.

In emails and on breaks, I chat quietly to colleagues. I neither pretend nor act excessively to impress.

Later in the week, I wake earlier and join the morning world. I travel to the station, consuming a piece of toast or flavoured liquid cereal.

I get most of my reading done on the afternoon train. Sometimes sleep demands priority. At home, I cook or have what she has cooked. We share our days and retire into each others arms, first on the couch – classic television or film, our drug of choice – then in bed.

On weekends, she dances. I play soccer or write. We see friends who relax and drink, smile and converse, for their self-esteem. I speak to my mother and sister on the phone, and we occasionally share a meal with them. Her family live close, and she speaks to them regularly and arranges to visit her dog, Lily.

We shop and cook meals for the week, and eat takeaway. We make love.

In summer, we drive up the coast to the beach and read and swim to supplement our staples: cafes and video shops and cinema. In winter, we visit relatives in the country.

When bored, we listen to music, go to gigs and cultural festivals, dance or attend sporting events. When tired, we engage in local travel and plan overseas fantasies. “One day” we will move somewhere quiet.

This sustains us. We are balanced and mostly healthy – happy. I’m happier than I’ve ever been.