Smirking, I walk across our massive loft to the closet, always aware of how wild my office is in comparison to the rest.
Richard's designer chose everything with precision—furniture and art that whisper "we have lots of money in tasteful tones of white."
White is white. It's boring.
I let it slide, but sometimes I wonder why I didn't fight harder for the one thing I actually wanted—the view.
Who lives in a skyscraper near the ocean and doesn't have a waterfront view? But I don't like to argue with Richard, so I caved, and now I watch other buildings.
In the closet, I put on a tweed beige dress and kitten heels with a bow.
I'd almost pass for my usual sophisticated, if I cared to straighten my hair the way I usually do, but not today.
Today, I twist my light brown hair into a wild bun and dust on some bronzer over my golden freckles because it's been twenty-seven years and I still don't know if I love or hate them, but I do know that this will have to do.
At the door, I text Richard a sailboat emoji—our morning tradition and a reminder of how he pursued me.
He booked a cruise for our second date because "you can'tescape my dad jokes on the ocean."
Instead of feeling trapped, I fell for him. For how he knew exactly what he wanted—me—and made it clear.
His reply is instant.
Richard: Jess is about to drop off your dress. You'll be the most beautiful woman there. -Rich.
I smile. Almost three years married and he still signs his texts like we're pen pals. Yup, that's Richard.
The elevator takes forever. The usual.
When the doors open and I walk in, something's different in the air.
I sniff around, trying to catch it while my foot starts tapping uncontrollably, making me smirk at how dramatic my nervous system can be.
There's definitely a faint scent and obviously it's doing something to me, but I can't connect it with anything before the ride ends.
Downstairs, the otherwise pristine marble lobby has exploded into chaos with moving boxes everywhere.
Seems like an actual human is moving in, not a company, which is rare for this building because it's mostly corporate. Good location otherwise: SoMa in San Francisco—all high-rise condos, tech wealth, and a food scene that's delicious.
I try to pass through the line-up but a mover bumps one stack and—
"Oops! Sorry!" he calls, just as an umbrella shoots open, right in my face, startling me to take a step back.
I manage a faint "No worries," staring at the pattern.
Italian flag with ristretto cups, hearts, and a gondola. So shameless I stifle a laugh, and already spin a story about its owner.
Some sentimental romantic who's still in love with a girl named Veronica. He met her in Venice. She asked him to buy her ice cream—Bacio. That gave him the courage to kiss her before she had to leave. Their forever was supposed to start at Rialto Bridge, seven sharp. She never came.
See? I still have it. If I get really desperate, I'll write his story.
Outside, the morning fog clings to the tops of buildings with that particular golden quality you see only here in SF. Reminds me of VHS movies for some reason.
It still feels strange that I moved back home when I swore I'd never return to the city that only saw me hurting. But Richard's firm needed him here, and I thought being somewhere familiar could fix me.It hasn't.
So it's only been a place of my two failed relationships. Actually, one relationship, and that other... thing.
There's a tiny comfort in knowing the streets from the back of your hand though and some of the hidden gems, like this one I'm walking into called Eleven:Eleven.
