Thirteen.
Twelve.
“And if I do,” I said, “does radio still play the single?”
Rachel did not answer.
She did not need to.
The doors opened into the lobby.
A woman near reception looked at me twice, then whispered something to the man beside her.
He turned.
Recognition moved across his face.
I smiled automatically.
Warm.
Relatable.
Wholesome.
He approached and asked for a photograph.
I took one.
Then another with the woman.
By the time we reached the front doors, they were both following me online.
Claire was waiting at my apartment when I got home.
She stood in the kitchen wearing one of my T-shirts and attempting to open a bottle of wine with a corkscrew she had somehow bent.
“This device is discriminatory,” she said.
I dropped my bag on a chair.
“Against whom?”
“People without upper-body strength or mechanical intuition.”
“You have upper-body strength.”
“Then it’s personal.”
I took the bottle from her.
Claire watched me remove the cork in three seconds.
“I don’t like what this says about our relationship.”
“That I should handle emergencies?”
“That you’ll be smug about them.”
