The morning is an hour older than it needs to be. Olivia stands at the kitchen counter, already dressed for work. Her blouse is buttoned to the top, sleeves rolled with mathematical precision. She has made two mugs of coffee because her hands require occupation and because it is what she does every morning now, whether or not she feels like sharing the space with anyone else.
One mug is set by her left hand, handle at a perfect right angle, not yet touched. The second sits in the middle of the counter, positioned exactly where Adrian always stands. He is not in the kitchen yet, but he will be, because in this apartment every movement is so predictably mapped that Olivia can see the choreography before it happens.
Neither of them slept much. There is no evidence of this, but she can sense
