"Where," I said, "is my coffee."
I was standing in the kitchen at six fifty-three in the morning, tie half done, already four minutes behind, and the shelf where I kept my coffee pods was empty. Not low. Not running out. Empty.
"I moved them," Elena said.
She was at the counter eating toast and reading something on her phone. She had been living in my penthouse for eight days. In those eight days she had reorganised the kitchen twice, left sticky notes on my office door, and apparently relocated every coffee pod I owned.
"You moved my coffee."
"They were disorganised."
"I could find them."
"You had three different brands mixed with the sugar and the teabags. It was chaos."
"It was my system."
"That wasn't a system. It was a pile." She pointed without looking up. "They're in the ca
