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“Want to get a pizza?”
“Sure,” I say, without looking up at The Boy. I put down my MacBook, and check my reflection: my bobbed hair’s carefully disheveled, my lingerie romper a crisp black and white. I grab my iPhone and wallet, and– “I just have to get my shoes downstairs.”
“Don’t bother.” The Boy walks into one of his closets, and pushes the button to call the elevator. On the way out he tosses pink, Made-in-China flip-flops at me. The sandals rest on his Persian rug; I stare at them.
“No way am I wearing one of your ex-hoe’s shoes.” I wrinkle my face. “Especially when they’re flip-flops.”
“Just put them on,” he says. “You won’t even get out of the car.”
I tie tight my belted camel coat, rubbing my cheek against the fox fur collar. I finally slip on the rubber sandals. Over the elevator’s rumbling as it rises to our floor, I hear The Boy chuckling in the closet. “Oh, don’t come in here yet. I haven’t worn this in forever.” I hear some shuffling. “Okay, you can look.”
The Boy walks into his bedroom’s low light, and his Greek bust of a body is covered completely by a brown robe dusting the floor. The dirt-dyed fabric is shapeless, except for a peaked hood that swallows his white face into a shadow.
“From Saks?” I ask.
“Turkey,” he says, grinning. “It’s actually incredibly warm. I wore it on the plane home, and the other passengers looked worried, like I’d been praying to Allah.”
“Beautiful, Binnie,” I say. I hold the door open, following him into the elevator, almost like a meek wife. “Let’s roll.”
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