Page 387
Charm’s perfume reaches me before I finish cutting through the tape.
Photographs cover the top.
The first shows her loft.
It is small, warm, and unmistakably hers. Books occupy nearly every wall. A cream sofa sits beneath the windows with blush pillows arranged across it, and gold light spills from a lamp beside a chair covered in something soft enough to make me imagine her curled into it while writing.
Another picture shows the narrow kitchen. A pizza box rests open across the counter.
She has written along the bottom.
Proof of life. Olives included because I remain right.
The next photographs show her boutique.
Gold fixtures hold clothing against blush walls. Crystals hang from the lighting and throw small pieces of color across the floor. The space is elegant without feeling untouchable. It looks like Charm stepped inside her own imagination and finally allowed herself to build something without asking whether anyone else approved.
The glass dress I sent her stands on the counter.
Sunlight catches inside the blush skirt, ignites the gold running through it, and scatters across the black base.
TAKE UP SPACE faces the camera.
Charm has written on the back.
It belongs here. So do I.
My chest tightens.
The next photograph shows Charm, Bliss, and Aura seated around a restaurant table. Bliss leans into Charm’s shoulder while Aura holds up her glass. All three women are laughing.
On the back, Charm wrote:
This was the night I yelled at the maître d’. Aura claims “yelled” is inaccurate because I never raised my voice. Bliss says making a grown man apologize while speaking quietly was worse. I remain proud.
I laugh and place it beside the picture of her shop.
The next image removes every thought from my head.
Charm stands inside her bathroom wearing nothing except a towel she isn’t actually wearing. One end covers a single breast while the rest crosses between her thighs, leaving nearly every curve of her body exposed. Her hair falls in wild waves around her shoulders. Gloss shines across her parted lips, and something wicked lives inside the way she looks at the camera.
She took it before showering.
I know because I know the difference between Charm’s hair after sleep, sex, rain, and water.
I stare until the apartment becomes too warm.
Another photograph waits beneath it.
Her bare ass fills most of the frame.
Soft, round, and plumper than it was when we were together, it curves beneath the delicate line of her spine. She has drawn a tiny gold crown above one cheek.
Across the bottom, she wrote:
BABY GOT BACK!
My laugh breaks through a groan.
