The doorbell chimed at the stroke of seven-thirty on Friday, signaling Nigel’s arrival.
I gave a glance around my apartment. Everything was neat and tidy. Billie Holiday’s Music for Torching was on my console record player—there was just room for it, a loveseat, and a coffee table in my tiny living room—and I set the needle in the groove, leaving the stacker feature back so it would repeat.
As “It Had to Be You” played softly in the background, I went to open the door.
“Good evening, Portia.” Nigel wore a black overcoat, and in his left hand he held his hat, while his right held a bouquet of red roses.
“Good evening, Nigel. Please come in. Let me take your hat and coat.”
“Thank you.”
I hung them up in my tiny closet.
“I brought you these.” He offered me the bouquet.
“Thank you. The
