Oliver’s place was one of two flats over a clothing boutique. He had the top floor, so they trudged up a couple flights. Well, “trudged” was a slight exaggeration. Wilson’s tread was steady; Oliver’s was downright sprightly.
The highlights in his hair sparkled in the dim light. He had to have some kind of glitter in there.
The warm, familiar scent of fresh pizza filled the stairway. Wilson’s Chicken Spinach Alfredo had looked a lot like his favorite back home, and Oliver’s Super Veggie was absolutely loaded with a mass of vegetables that might have been purchased at that morning’s farmers’ market.
Oliver’s apartment was everything Wilson would have expected. Bright. Shiny. Bursting with color.
“Local artist?” Wilson gestured at a large vibrant abstract canvas hanging over the vivid red
