Still wrapped in the blanket, I went back to the master bathroom, where I’d left my clothes, and sent Amelia a text: can I use the laundry machine to wash my clothes? unfortunately, Itzhak’s been ill.

no! did he ruin ur clothes?

i’m fine

please use my bathroom to rinse off. The response allayed all my fears and filled me with the same sense of euphoria that I’d had earlier.

I placed my clean clothes in the laundry machine with detergent. Then, when I entered the master bathroom again, it was not as a trespasser, but as an invited guest. I sank down into a tub of steamy hot water. The water jets massaged my body, and I imagined it was someone touching me. Thoughts of Fritz consumed my imagination. Followed by thoughts of Amelia. I stared at the magical light fixture on the ceiling, a million drops of crystal held together by some invisible force. A feeling of deep contentment and optimism pervaded my soul. I stepped out of the bath, invigorated. Once I’d dried off, I returned to the laundry room to place my clothes in the dryer.

When Amelia and Fritz came home, they both apologized repeatedly. They felt awful for leaving Itzhak in my care, a dog with chronic gastrointestinal issues. In this situation, they could only see themselves as the guilty parties.

The next day, I woke up late with a headache, as if I were hungover, though I’d had very little to drink the night before. I checked my phone. The first time I’d babysat for Natalie, Amelia had written to me early the following morning, but I found no message this time. I checked again twenty minutes later. And again after that. I was hoping for some acknowledgment of our growing relationship. I feared sliding back. I drank a cup of coffee, showered, dressed, checked my phone again, then collected my equipment for the job I had that afternoon in Tribeca.

I arrived and stepped out of the elevator directly into a corner duplex penthouse: twenty-foot ceilings, white oak floors, a landscaped terrace, and sweeping views. Having photographed more than eight hundred parties given by wealthy New Yorkers, I was no longer impressed by the size of a home, nor was I impressed by costly art, furniture, or finishes. A majority of rich people have bad taste and derivative homes. Some of them have an impressive art collection dictated by an art consultant. It’s possible to hire people who will tell you what art to buy, what dishes to buy, what sheets to buy, what color to paint your walls. But the final product does not reflect any one person’s point of view, personality, taste, or sensibility. Just like any generic idea of what’s good, it’s actually not good.