The apartment smelled like instant noodles and rain through a window that never sealed right. I sat on the bed counting tips into small piles on the comforter: rent, electric, groceries.
The grocery pile was always too thin. My feet throbbed inside socks I had worn for twelve hours, and I was thirty-two years old, still living month to month, still holding my breath underwater.
He took a glass, paused, and asked my name.
The charity dinner was a last-minute pickup: black slacks, white shirt, a tray of champagne flutes balanced against my forearm.
I had skipped lunch and dinner to fit the uniform, and the chandeliers above me kept swimming. That was where Russell found me, silver at the temples, wearing a suit that probably cost more than my car.
