The color matched my mom’s nail polish perfectly, and when I saw the earrings dangling on the stand, I knew they were meant for me. Even if the tattoo artist seemed reluctant to part with them. For a moment when he looked at me with those interesting amber eyes, it seemed he knew me, or at least thought he did. “Babe, food’s here,” Lincoln’s voice came through the upstairs intercom. I headed down to the kitchen. The overhead lights reflected off the gleaming stainless steel appliances, casting a stream of prism shaped colors through the white tile kitchen. Lincoln had filled his kitchen with every piece of expensive gourmet equipment on the market but neither of us cooked. My skills did not go past a can of soup and a grilled cheese sandwich, and I was a chef compared to Lincoln. So, for the most part, the kitchen remained untouched and pristine like so many other things in his lavish house. He pushed the box of Chinese food to me, and I sat up on the stool to eat. A mixture of anger and disappointment radiated off of him, and I actually felt sorry for him.
