The Real Investor

Our fifth anniversary, and Luca was forty minutes late.

I was at the same Tribeca tasting-menu place where we'd had our first real dinner. The strip steak in front of me had been cut into once and not touched again. The sommelier had refilled my water three times. By the third refill, his eyes had pity in them.

I didn't check my phone. I didn't need to. He was either at the office or at Iris's, and for five years that had been the entire dataset.

When he walked in, his suit jacket was draped over his forearm and the top button of his shirt was open. He didn't smell like a bar. But there was a smudge on his white cuff. NARS Sheer Glow in Stromboli. Two shades darker than mine. Iris wore it every day; I'd watched her reapply it in our dorm bathroom for four years.