Kevin didn't come upstairs, but his fingerprints were all over the apartment.
I opened the door and stood still. Gold light rinsed over a velvet sofa the color of royal wine, a coffee table with brass corners, a chandelier that thought we were in a minor palace. Crown molding wove a frame around the ceiling like a flourish on a signature.
“You're kidding me," I said to the empty room.
The kitchen counters shone. A vase of eucalyptus leaves breathed clean into the air. The bedroom—when I pushed it open—was a soft riot of pale linens and an obscene rug that could have hosted a ball. On the dresser, a ceramic tray waited for jewelry. On the wall, not art, but a mirror big enough to argue with.
My phone buzzed.
Kevin: “Hate it yet?"
Me: “It's ridiculous."
Kevin: “So yes?"
Me: “It's per
