EN

I was thirty-nine years old, my hands smelled like two-stroke gasoline, and I had just spent the morning

I had my car keys in my hand when she walked in. Four fifty-eight on a Tuesday in July, Phoenix, Arizona.

The thing about working in a building like The Atwater is you learn to move like a ghost. Silent elevators.

The audition room at Ashford Conservatory smelled like rosin and lemon furniture polish. September light

The Sephora bag sat on the pillow next to me when I woke up. Pale pink, crisp tissue paper poking out.

The U-Haul showed up on a Wednesday. I remember because Wednesdays are recycling day, and the truck blocked

My parents canceled my twenty-eighth birthday dinner because my sister Maddie sat down in the middle

I landed at San Antonio International with my dress blues still sharp and a bag of souvenirs for Lily.

The makeup bag landed on the pillow next to my head with that soft, padded thud only expensive leather makes.

I’d been slinging drinks at the Astoria’s grand ballroom since four in the afternoon, and my feet were