'm wearing oversized cashmere knits to fight the sudden drop in temperature, the wintry cold that slowly finds its way through the walls and the windows and on to my naked skin. Stephanie left the apartment on Monday morning, I haven't seen or heard from her since. On the kitchen table a slaughtered envelope and a lipstick stained coffee cup, more than one of her silk charmeuse dresses missing from the neatly arranged walk-in closet.
I keep watching my phone
for signals and proofs that she's still alive, but all I see are
increasingly desperate messages from Henry. He wants me to meet him in
Prague, then Berlin, then Athens. "Let's just leave everything behind"
he writes and I'm not sure if he means our lives or the things we've
I try calling her, a few seconds pass before her
velvet voice: "This is Stephanie, leave a message or catch me falling
through the heavens".