She circles like a buzzard outside my front door. Linda London is one cosmetic procedure away from snapping and taking out someone’s eye, and I almost feel sorry for her. She was on TV when I was a teenager, and I thought she was old back then. Over the years, the veteran talent has been replaced on Seattle airwaves. Some kicked out without a mention, to be replaced by someone solely driven by living in a city famous for the things they love the most: Amazon and Starbucks. I admit she looks decently preserved, especially through the small lens of my front-door peephole, but as she lifts her hand to knock, I can see how old she really is.

Hands can never pass for younger unless covered by expensive gloves.

She knocks again.

Dogged reporter, I think. Works even on a Saturday.

She knows I’m home because my car is parked on the street.

She rings the bell for the third time.

I give in and open the door.

“Adam,” she says, as if she knows me, “I’m glad you’re home.”

“Hi, Linda,” I say, playing her game of familiarity.

“Can I come in?” she asks. “Just me. No camera. Just want to tell you about the disturbing call I got early this morning.”

“This isn’t a good time,” I tell her. “Our nanny just put Aubrey down for a nap.”

It feels strange when I say the word our. There is no our anymore.

“It will just take a minute,” she says, her blue eyes working overtime to transmit trust and sincerity.

“Fine,” I say, again giving in. I shut the door behind her.

She smells like my grandmother’s perfume. Or it might be the scent of her hairspray. I was never good with things like that. Sophie said I had a nose for business but not much else. I pretended to think it was funny, but it really wasn’t. It was a dig.

“You want coffee or something?” I ask, not sure if she’s there to help me or find me a spot under a Metro bus tire somewhere.

“That would be wonderful,” she says. “Coffee’s actually good for you. I did a spotlight report on its health benefits last week.”

I imagine that most conversations with Linda London are like that: peppered with the updates she makes to her LinkedIn page in preparation for the day they fire her in favor of some much younger blonde with big white teeth and bright, communicative eyes.

She follows me into the kitchen, and I pour her a cup and one for myself.

“I’m really sorry about your wife,” she says, settling in as if we were about to have a cozy chat.

“Me too,” I say.

“You must still be in shock. I’m really sorry for intruding during a very personal time.”