“Come in and talk to me if you want back on the schedule.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“I mean it. Take care of yourself,” he said, and hung up.

The kindness in his voice made me start to cry. I paced from window to window, surveying the street, the side yard, the dusty vase on the neighbor’s windowsill. I trimmed some unraveling strings on the rug. I wished I could talk to someone about going to Sally’s last night. There was no one I could call. I hated Michael for not being there. For leaving me alone. Even if we were still together it would have been too much to explain. Nobody besides Danielle would understand.

I poured whiskey into my coffee mug and flipped through some old pictures of Danielle. I found one taken in my apartment right after graduation. Pot smoke mingled with the light coming through the living room windows, obscuring her hair, making it even more blond. The cloud of light touched her down one side as she smiled at the camera, her heavy-lidded eyes blinking at the smoke. I wished I’d taken more photos, gotten in touch with her sooner, seen her more. It seemed impossible that she was gone.

On my laptop I opened Danielle’s website and paid the eighteen dollars with my debit card. I wanted to see her, that was all. I watched a video of Audrey and Danielle together in a room with dark walls. Danielle wore garters and black stilettos, her blond waves held with a shell clip. She stood and spoke, and I muted the volume—her voice was more than I could stand.

Audrey’s body draped along a red upholstered bench. She wore a simple loose dress of some nearly transparent fabric. Her feet were bare, her toenails unpolished. Danielle bent at the waist to kiss her, displaying her ass for the camera. She pushed Audrey’s dress up her tan thigh. The next shot showed Audrey kissing Danielle’s tits, Audrey’s hands everywhere on her. Danielle closed her eyes in a simulation of pleasure. Their bodies writhed and panted.

The camera zoomed out to show them on the bench, moving together, groping one another, and cut to the doorway where a man stood. He was shirtless, muscled. He pulled Danielle by the arm, attached her mouth to his cock, which she sucked automatically. Another guy came in, yanked Audrey’s dress over her head and tossed it aside. I lit a cigarette and fast-forwarded to a close-up of Danielle. She pulled a lock of hair behind her ear. The lines of her fingers, the grace of her movement—I’d seen her perform that same gesture, thoughtlessly, a million times. I rewound the video and watched again as she tucked her hair behind her ear. She died and left this, of all things.

I didn’t want to go to the memorial service, but I knew I had to. I wished Michael were with me. I had to figure out what to wear. To my mom’s funeral I’d worn a dress I’d borrowed from Danielle. My closet contained a bunch of crappy work clothes and sundresses, nothing appropriate. I finished my drink and went shopping.