Seventy-three

Vincent drops his pen to the table cluttered with files. His receptionist notified him of my presence yet he appears ruffled. I take another step inside his office and drop to the chair without an invitation. 

We don’t speak.

I glance at the window overlooking the tall buildings and skyscrapers in one row. There is a pot of flowers on the windowsill. I smile at it. El has one of those for putting the flowers I send her. A familiar heaviness presses against my chest, my fingers trail the edge of his wooden desk and I exhale a soft, quick breath.

“Took you long enough,” Vincent finally says. 

The longer I stare, the less he looks like her. All I see are black, bitter eyes that are nothing like Nicole’s. She never mentioned a brother. She never mentioned a sibling. She didn’t like discussing her family. I didn’t like talking about mine so I was fine with that. I pick a pencil from his desk and spin it in a circle