That evening, I am sautéing chicken stir-fry for Steve, and waiting for him to arrive.
It is six o’ clock, and the day’s light is waning and disappearing behind the treetops in the front yard. A soft rain taps the sliding glass doors.
Fifteen minutes later, a knock on the apartment door announces his arrival. Steve is holding a pricey bottle of sweet Sauvignon Blanc. “Business at the club has been good,” he says, raising the wine.
I wink at him and hold his head in my hands, pulling him toward me so our lips are touching.
I hear my neighbor’s apartment door opening from across the hallway, and I notice Miles watching us from the doorway.
“Evening, Miles,” I say, wrapping my arm around Steve’s shoulder.
“I thought I heard voices,” Miles says, his owl-stare darting in Steve’s direction
