She had been friends with Peri for four months and had yet to see her house. I have a dress I want you to wear. The maid will bring it. I’d bring it myself but I have to organize this thing, Peri wrote and for whatever reason Odilie expected a burlap sack, a nun’s habit, as if Peri could sense from Odilie’s short, polite exchanges with Tom that she was instantly and completely obsessed with him.

But what came was cream colored, spaghetti strapped, practically sheer, skimming over Odilie’s bony frame so nicely that she got ready early to wear it, the feel of it so tantalizing on her skin, a gossamer dessert of a dress.

It was odd to get ready without Peri, the air quiet, the space palpably bigger. Odilie was surprised by the silence, that not a single word fell from her mouth. But it was nice, somehow, not to have the chatter, to have the whole mirror to herself, not to have the interstices of the rooms be taken up by Peri, her breaths, her scent, the clatter of her teeth.

On the drive over, Odilie tried to control her thoughts. Whenever the erupting excitement of seeing him again threatened to break the surface of her subconscious, she pinched her arm so hard that she left little welts all across her skin. She was so busy attempting this masochism that she didn’t even realize she had already arrived when she pulled up at the house, another estate with tall shrubbery masking the facade.

Odilie parked on the street, stepped out and pushed the front gate in, walking up the stone path to the front door, wide open and letting anyone inside. She knew about this property somewhat, that it had recently been acquired and that the house was built on spec up by a developer. It wasn’t that grand; it was expensive-looking, sure, a Stanford White–inspired shingled beach house. But it was slightly smaller than Odilie was expecting, an ordinary two-car garage, the front of the house almost shrunken, like it was scaled down from the original architectural plan and constructed in a hurry.

But when Odilie entered she understood. All the money was poured into the art, canvases hanging on the walls of nude women, photographs, paintings, sketches. Crotches splayed, breasts augmented to Anime-style proportions. Peri had mentioned they were renting it from investors in Tom’s company, that she hadn’t had a hand in decorating the place. But still, Odilie couldn’t help but suddenly associate these images, the women with their fingers fondling their vulvas, eyes downcast, big billows of yellow hair shielding their faces, with Tom. With what he could do to her.

She pinched herself so hard she began to bleed.