¡°Tiffany¡± grenade charm bracelet $130, Elsewares.com

¡°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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