He was lean and tan with greasy brown hair and wire-rim glasses. He surprised her one warm spring Saturday afternoon by walking into the foyer wearing nothing but a pair of baggy shorts and a yellow fishnet T-shirt. His bare feet landed pat-pat-pat against the floor. “Oops,” he said, nearly bumping into her. “Excuse me.” He checked his mailbox and sorted through his mail, saying, “Junk, junk, junk.” Back in her apartment, Sophie poured herself a glass of wine and lay down on the sofa. She rested the wine glass on her stomach, closed her eyes and tried to picture the goateed man naked. She ran her fingers through his greasy brown hair, but whenever she tried to kiss him, he melted in her arms. He kept dissolving on her. On Sunday, Sophie slept in with the Times and croissants from the French bakery down the block. Cassie called, but Sophie was too tired to do anything. She had no social life to speak of, but that didn’t bother her. Overwork and exhaustion had become her best friends.
