The boutique was closed that morning. Claudia had drawn the curtains before I arrived, and someone had written a note in careful block letters and taped it to the door: “Temporarily Closed for Inventory.” It was not a lie, but it was not the full truth either. We were not counting garments or checking receipts. We were collecting ourselves.

Julian sat at the back table, flipping through the morning papers with a kind of practiced detachment, the way someone reads not to learn something ...