He glanced in the rearview mirror, attempted the thankless task of smoothing down his eyebrows, which over time had taken on a life of their own. Then he grabbed the bouquet of flowers lying across the passenger seat and exited his Mercedes. Even after all these years, Phillip still took great pleasure in the fact that he could walk onto any car lot in the world and purchase a top-of-the-line luxury car, no problem. He tucked the bouquet under his arm, freeing up his hands to give his slacks a hike and tighten his belt. Unlike his contemporaries, he hadn’t let his body turn to fat. He still had his basketball player’s build, long legs, and bony ass.

Once everything was in order, he stepped onto the sidewalk and headed toward her house, humming Paul Anka’s “Puppy Love” under his breath. It seemed apropos. Physically, he was a seventy-two-year-old man, but Vicki made him feel like a teenager in love.

He was pleased to see that Vicki was home. Her porch light was on, and light spilled through the cracks of the drawn curtains in her upstairs bedroom. She wasn’t expecting him to arrive uninvited, but what other option did he have left? He had to see her. They needed to talk face-to-face. The anxiety was killing him. When they had landed at JFK, she had refused a ride home. Vicki had marched to the AirTrain, stepped inside, and as the doors were sliding shut behind her, she informed Phillip not to expect her in the office on Monday. She refused to answer his numerous texts and calls.

Phillip climbed the front steps and rapped on the door, which was, at present, a fire-engine red. How long this color would last was anyone’s guess. It was one of the things he loved about Vicki—her passion and her joie de vivre. He listened for a moment but didn’t hear the sound of her footsteps approaching. He could hear soft music drifting through her cracked-open window, the sound of voices. She must have the TV on. He rapped harder on the door, leaning on the doorbell for good measure. “Vicki,” he bellowed, which was so unlike him it made him smile. Who is this new man of action? Phillip felt a sense of power surge through him as if he were channeling Marlon Brando and had become Stanley Kowalski, getting his Stella back. “Vickeeeeee!”

A dog barked down the block. A window flew open across the street. “Shut the fuck up! I got kids sleeping in here.”

“Make me,” Phillip called back, putting his dukes up, bouquet still under his elbow, doing a little one-two step. He might not have done it, because the guy was built like a gorilla, but he could hear Vicki sliding the safety chain off the door, unlatching the locks.

“Seriously, old man,” the guy snarled. “Don’t tempt me.”