Camile
"It"s so cold in here," I say as Mark and I make our way through the penthouse apartment. "It"s like he didn"t want anyone to get comfortable."
Mark smiles. “He definitely wasn"t the sentimental type.”
The living room is stark, with white walls and minimal furniture. A glass coffee table sits in front of a white leather couch, and two matching chairs are arranged around a fireplace that looks like it has never been used. Abstract paintings hang on the walls, and the only color in the room comes from a neon sculpture mounted on one shelf: an abomination so hideous that, even though it’s illuminated by only a single light, it’s nearly blinding.
Mark stares at it but does not comment.
"This is weird," I say, shaking my head. "It"s like he was trying to create some kind of museum."
