The cab stopped in front of the brownstone. I threw bills at the driver, ran up the steps, and missed the lock twice before getting the door open.
Leo’s cartoons weren’t playing at the low volume he used with his processor. The hall diffuser held none of the sandalwood, bergamot, or whatever Serena happened to be testing that week.
Tonight I could hear the refrigerator from the front door.
The diffuser was empty.
“Serena! I’m home!”
No one answered. She was upstairs, I told myself, packing a bag for one night at a hotel to punish me for missing the party.
I went into the kitchen for a drink and stopped at the refrigerator.
Her sticky notes still covered the stainless steel.
*Leo: implant batteries, Tuesday.*
*Speech therapy invoice due: Friday.*
*No citrus in Arthur’s aftershave
