I was alone in the elevator. The mirror showed me a wreck of a person. Hair hanging in wet clumps. Eye makeup smeared into two dark streaks down my face. Clothes clinging to my body like I'd just been fished out of a river.
I stared at the woman in the mirror.
Who was she?
I'd followed her for ten years, and suddenly I didn't recognize her.
The elevator doors opened. I stepped out, fumbled for my keys, unlocked the door.
The apartment was dark.
I didn't turn on the lights. Just stood in the entryway, breathing in the familiar scent. The lemongrass diffuser I'd bought. He said it smelled like dish soap. I told him he didn't know the first thing about anything.
His car keys were still sitting on the entryway console. He'd taken my car to the bar tonight, said his had an odd plate number and couldn't be on the road.
His shoes were on the rack. Sneakers tossed at lazy angles, sprawled next to my boots, which were lined up perfectly.
In the living room, the instant noodle cup from last night was still sitting on the coffee table. He hadn't thrown it away.
His jacket was draped over the couch, tossed there when he left that morning. I hadn't folded it. Just left it where it landed.