At noon, Lily was surrounded by memories of Anjolie. With every breath she found another faded love letter, another photograph or creased birthday card. This was her space, the only place that had ever belonged only to her, but she couldn't get away from Anji. Fed up, she abandoned the idea of unpacking and decided to shed her clothes and with them, she hoped, her mood.

*****

Even cold, the spreading tang of orange chicken made her think of eating out with Richard. When she closed her eyes, she could summon the sticky-sweet bite of plum wine and the smooth comfort of linen tablecloths. Each piece smelled of the future, and Lily smiled for the first time in hours.

*****

Lily shifted the canvas to catch more of the afternoon sun. The oily swirls looked nothing like Richard's hair in the snapshot taped to her easel. She tapped the end of the paintbrush against her chin, hoping to find inspiration in the warm wood. She ached to capture him, to devour his soul and let it rest comfortably in her gut.

One sweeping stroke. Another. She leaned back, bringing the brush to her lips and, a moment later, spat out a bitter mouthful of paint. She dropped the brush and clutched her throat, gagging at the taste.

*****

Three o'clock found her lips raw from scrubbing, the flesh tender and swollen. The taste of olive oil lingered on her tongue and she thought of Anji's hands around her own. She thought of all the times Anjolie had rubbed the paint from her arms, her breasts. She blinked and sepia skin paled, slid into stubbly cream, and long black braids shrank into curls in her mind's eye. It was not Anji she saw but Rich, with his hard shoulders and the rough planes of his arms. The stinging sensation in her lips reminded her of the first time they had kissed, and the alien scratch of five o'clock shadow against her cheeks.

*****

Shadows crept over the floor, highlighting the warped tile near the table. Lily drew her legs up on the sofa and hugged herself. She should go out. Only three blocks lay between her and Café D, and the walk would do her good.

She reached for the remote instead, and a tear slid down her face. The salt burned her aching lips.

*****

At nine, the phone rang twice and stopped. Lily knew it was Anji. Lily could picture her standing in the kitchen, her knuckles gone white around the handset. They both knew there was nothing left to say.

*****

By eleven, she knew she wouldn't sleep. Rich would be off work soon, but there was no reason to spoil his night with her brooding. Still, Lily wanted to be waiting when he got home, curled up on his doorstep like a package. Special delivery. No charge for angst.

*****

Lily prowled through scattered books, searching for order in the chaos. Finally she picked up a box of condoms and sat cross-legged on the floor as she read the instructions. She giggled at the illustrations and her hands shook until the tiny letters wriggled in unreadable patterns. She had told Rich two days before that she was ready, and he only shook his head.

You're not. You think you are, but you're not.

No, I am, she insisted.

You mean you want to be. The first time is too important to waste. Just give it time, Lil. And his fingers danced over her cheek, her nose. His skin smelled of sunshine.

*****

Just before dawn she sat on the windowsill and counted the fading stars. Her breath painted patterns in mist across the glass. Lily let her head fall against the frame and closed her eyes.