Holland
The truck’s engine ticked in that cooling way machines do when they’ve done everything asked of them and would like to rest now. Remy walked me from the parking garage to the elevator, his palm warm at the small of my back but not directing, a touch like a comma that let me finish my own sentence. George’s desk lamp downstairs had been left on for us; the lobby cat was a loaf in the window, pretending to be asleep and absolutely clocking our arrival.
Inside, I clicked on the small lamp by the kitchenette and the room turned itself down to a softer version of reality. My heels were already off—thank the flats he’d thought to bring—so I started to the counter, set my little black clutch beside the fruit bowl, and slid the strap of my wrap from my shoulder. The black dress whispered
