Stress. L.K. smiles at the word. This man, with a gold stud winking in his ear and big, splayed, grimy toes! Not likely such a man is vulnerable to stress.

Stress. More likely a female malady.

L.K. has not thought of the Durant building in decades. It is something of a shock—not altogether a pleasurable shock—to hear the name spoken now.

“Yes. The Durant.”

Where she’d driven to interview a young artist in his studio, for the Detroit News Magazine. His name—she can’t recall his name. A handsome light-skinned Hispanic or an African American … A Detroit version of the Haitian artist Jean-Michel Basquiat, who’d become enormously famous before dying of a heroin overdose, still in his twenties.

The Detroit artist whose name L.K. has forgotten had enjoyed a vogue locally for a while. Taken up by well-to-do (white) women from suburban Grosse Pointe, Birmingham, Bloomfield Hills; then, for some reason—whether because he’d committed a faux pas, or disappointed one of his patrons, or simply worn out his novelty as many of his kind did—shortly after the day of the interview, his career had peaked and he’d lapsed back into the obscurity from which he’d emerged.

Almost, L.K. can remember the name. She feels a vise tighten around her chest.

This man, middle-aged, slovenly, so very different from the lean young artist L.K. had once known, is asking L.K. if she would like to walk over to the Durant. Across the bridge. “There are fantastic views of the river from the Durant …” Hesitantly he issues the invitation, for he is making himself vulnerable to L.K., to be rebuked if she wishes.

She will tell him No thank you. Politely.

No—not just now.

Another time perhaps.

And yet: there is something about him. Indeed yes, she has been lonely.

If this man might love her, eventually. Adore her.

For he seems to L.K., by the look of yearning in his face, the sort of man searching for someone to adore. The avidity and hunger in his eyes, his frank and unassuming manner …

No one has adored L.K. in some time. Badly she yearns to be adored. Almost, she is willing to compromise: she will expend emotion of her own in exchange for (male) adoration.

Yet: the thought is ridiculous. She knows.

If her beautiful friend from college were not dying less than ten miles away. If she were not in dread of visiting Mia again in the morning. If she were stronger-willed, less lonely … She would not be vulnerable to such ridiculous thoughts.

Time for her to escape. Return to the safety of her hotel, where she will lie exhausted in a hot bath, drift off to sleep …