When I get back, I take Whisper on a short walk. Keeping her on-leash, even though it irritates the scratches on my hands. It’s only when I close the door to Leo’s apartment that I’m finally able to leave Brazuca behind, along with the easy camaraderie we seemed to have fallen into. I took the back alleys through to Leo’s apartment, and I was careful to keep a watch out. I make sure to check the cars on the street from the balcony anyway. There are no dark sedans to be seen, but there are quite a few station wagons and beat-up SUVs.

Funny, I’d never imagined that Leo would choose to live in a place like this, this tiny one-bedroom apartment that smells of fried food and marijuana. After their relationship ended, I’d been so concerned with taking care of Seb that Leo disappeared from my life.

He hasn’t done well in my absence.

The space itself is clean and relatively tidy, but Leo’s upscale wardrobe looks out of place here, crammed, as it is, into makeshift shelving. His artisanal pottery collection is strewn about hodgepodge, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen his shoes in worse shape. His bed looks secondhand, and he hadn’t even bothered to make it up before he left.

What in holy hell has Seb’s death done to him?

The one thing that’s quintessentially Leo is still in place, and I breathe a sigh of relief to find the sleek espresso maker he ordered from Italy a couple of years ago still in working order. Though, he’s out of the beans he used to special-order from Portland and is now relying on average grocery-store coffee beans. It’s sad how far he’s come down in life. A man like Leo doesn’t naturally forgo his fair-trade, organic Arabica. The coffee is a reflection of his state of mind, which is so obviously depressed. Leo and I . . . we’ve been through too much for me to look at his coffee selection and not feel a twinge of concern.

He’s been in here while I was out, too, and filled the fridge with gourmet dog food for Whisper and a pitiful selection of cheap frozen pizzas for me.

And there’s Chopin playing from somewhere, our own personal dirge.

His note to me begins with a Hey, Roomie, so I put it down unread and sit at the kitchen table, which is bare except for a book on dating in one’s thirties.

I leave that unread, too.