When I got home from work, Graham was in his office, the second bedroom we’d “eventually turn into a nursery.” Though the timeline on eventually remains unspecified. He doesn’t like anyone in his office. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d entered, and in two of those instances, I had to distract him from kicking me out with an elaborate fantasy of fucking at his desk at work with his assistant in the next room. “Take this image to your real office,” I’d said, pushing my tits together. I didn’t have much sway in the matter. Technically, I moved into his apartment. It’s not ours. As of right now, he was allowed to tell me I was banned from a room I wasn’t paying for.

I knock on the office door twice, giving him ample time to finish whatever he’s doing—sometimes I like to imagine he’s eating SkinnyPop and watching Keeping Up with the Kardashians or Selling Sunset, reminding himself why old money is better than new money.

As I wait for him to answer, I glance into our bedroom across the hallway. Graham’s suitcase is lying open and empty on the floor. He refuses to throw out that old suitcase and I hate it—it’s covered in stickers from his study abroad days, each one representing another exotic exploit: the Visca Barça jersey, a reminder of the dark-haired twenty-two-year-old who rolled her Rs around his dick in the back of a five-story club; the red phone booth, a relic of the uptight blonde wearing thick foundation who smeared her over-lined lips while telling him she wanted to try it up the ass.

Maybe I’ll accidentally destroy it before we leave. Clip the zipper or something simple.

“Come in,” he calls, and I push the heavy door open. He looks exhausted, his hair standing up in the places he must have run his hands through it. Purple bags had formed under his eyes that are in no way wedding acceptable. I will not have him standing beside me in New York Times Vows pictures looking like he’s given up.

“You’re home early,” he says.

I walk into the room slowly, like someone approaching a stray dog, ensuring I mean no harm, I won’t snoop, I’m just saying hello. The room is dark by design; the only window behind Graham’s wooden desk faces the building’s airshaft and lets in the morning light for only about two hours during peak summer months. But he leans into the vibe. The heather-and-brass drum chandelier is always dimmed to the point of being useless, and the smoked-glass table lamp is more for form than function. I believe he thinks it makes him seem more academic, more cerebral. Probably richer, too. As if the framed diploma from Yale and the mortgage-less Upper East Side apartment didn’t do those things for him.