Still no sign of mother, she comes and goes like an unusually chic phantom. Sometimes she leaves little traces around the apartment for me to find: perfect raspberry lip marks on a wine glass, one of her Chanel jackets hanging in the wrong place, another chapter read in Lolita or The Great Gatsby. She does it intentionally, like a treasure hunt, to let me know she was there and left again without having to actually tell me. I stumbled upon her diary once, there were a couple of pages missing and I know I'll never find them unless she wants me too.
When Chloe comes home from work we're going out, I've spent the day trying to decide between black from Jil Sander and white from Alice + Olivia. I've missed her infectious laughter and the smell from her opium cigarettes.