It took me fewer than fifteen steps to cross the small room and make it to the bathroom. Moments later, I was in the shower, scrubbing the day away. I stayed in so long that when I stepped out, my skin was soft and wrinkled. With the palm of my hand, I cleared a circle in the steamy mirror and leaned close to it, inspecting the puffiness beneath my eyes—one blue and one brown—and my hairline, which seemed just a bit thinner and grayer than the day before. With two fingers from each hand, I pushed the skin beneath my jaw up and back, toward my ears. Not for the first time since I had driven away from the apartment at 115 West Oak, I thought about the woman with the heart-shaped face and chin-length blond bob who I’d seen in the second-floor window, peering down at Lotti.

She’d stood in the glow of apartment lights, the blinds pulled completely open. And the only word to describe her appearance was powerful. I could clearly see the outline of her body, svelte and toned, through the sheer nightdress she was wearing, and there didn’t seem to be an ounce of loose skin to be pulled or tugged anywhere. She looked like the kind of woman who dared to take pictures head-on, not turned strategically to one side; like she’d never owned a piece of shapewear but said things like “I should try it sometime!” while pinching the invisible fat above her hip bone.

It wasn’t just her appearance that struck me; it was her confidence. She looked powerful because of the way she peered out into the night, that smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. I knew I should look away from what was clearly a moment of exhibitionism meant for the man who’d just gotten out of my car, yet I’d remained frozen, arrested by the scene. She was either unconcerned or unaware of the fact that I was still parked across the street. The man had his back to me, and he had frozen too, his head angled up toward the window. I couldn’t see his face, but I could feel the tension in his body as he stood there motionless in the rain, his gaze on the woman.

Then, as if embarrassed, he had turned back briefly to look at my car before putting his head down and rushing toward the apartment.

I had sat there, overwhelmed by something I couldn’t quite define—embarrassment for watching them, jealousy, longing—and I had finally put the car in Drive, set the wipers in motion, and pulled away.