I blink. “Excuse me?”
Her smile never wavers. Calm and professional in the way people smile when they already know the answer to the question you’re about to ask.
“Your service has been prepaid for three months,” she says. “You may cancel at any time, ma’am.”
Cancel.
The word matters.
It makes my anger shift from panic to something more complicated.
My face still burns hot.
“By who?” I ask anyway.
She does not answer.
She does not need to.
I step aside slowly and let her in.
The woman moves through the apartment like she belongs here. Windows slide open. Sheets are stripped from the bed. A spray bottle appears from her bag and suddenly the air smells like lemons and polished wood.
Within minutes Rico’s lingering scent begins to disappear.
That alone makes my chest ache.
She opens packages and replaces things like she’s been given directions.
Another knock raps through the apartment.
I stare at the door like it might explode.
When I open it again, two delivery men stand there with a brand new refrigerator balanced on a dolly.
I don’t even speak this time.
They roll my dented old one out like it’s garbage. The new one gleams stainless steel and smug under the kitchen light.
When they plug it in and open the doors, it’s already stocked, like someone paid a concierge service to build a life for me overnight.
Fresh fruit in neat rows. Imported cheese wrapped in wax paper. Bottles of sparkling water. Cold brew coffee. A tray of fresh salmon sealed in plastic.
Disco whistles low and says, “¡Qué rico!” like he’s about to climb in.
I laugh.
The sound that comes out borders on hysterical.
Because it’s absurd.
Because it’s generous.
Because it’s also control in stainless steel.
Then comes the final box.
It’s bigger than the rest.
