TANISHA
Every Monday morning, like clockwork, her receipts would somehow end up on Christof’s desk, half crumpled, lipstick-stained, and smelling faintly of her perfume. She never handed them to me, she’d just leave them on the marble like a spoiled breadcrumb trail.
I sorted through them because if I didn’t, Christof would ask why the numbers weren’t logged, and I didn’t have the mental energy for that explanation.
Most were predictable, boutiques, salons, a florist that charged way too much for stems that died in three days. Although, every now and then, one name repeated with suspicious frequency. Tristán.
I’m not talking cheap little brunch receipts, I’m talking multi-course, wine-pairing, “you must’ve been celebrating something” type bills. Damn, Christof was lucky he’s rich rich
