Daniel arrived for their Friday dinner right on time, at 7:30 PM. He brought flowers—pale pink peonies, her favorite, wrapped in brown paper. He kissed her cheek, his lips cool and familiar, and inhaled with a slight, pleased sigh. “Something smells amazing. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”
“I wanted to,” Evelyn said, taking the flowers, their scent cloying and heavy. Her stomach churned. She’d cooked a lemon-herb chicken, roasted baby potatoes, haricots verts—all things Daniel loved, all things that now smelled repulsive to her. She’d opened the windows to clear the air, letting in the damp San Francisco chill.
Everything in the apartment was perfect. The lighting was soft. A jazz playlist she knew he liked hummed discreetly from a speaker. She wore a cashmere sweater in a so
