Through the letterbox, down the hall, a steamed-up kitchen window, a bubbling stove, the scent of stewed apricots, and the voice of Lou Reed, fruity, cynical, and longing.
They brushed cheeks at the door. The same boyish prettiness. The same pale blue eyes, and over one shoulder a baby: downy, wet-fisted, its bottom cradled in his loving, giant hand.
He led her into the front room, turned the music down, and offered her the fleeting intimacy of tea. She stood at the mantlepiece admiring the candles, shells, and soft toys, wishing that the beautiful woman in the silver frame were dead.