Mira's apartment was unchanged. The clothes she had not packed were still in the closet, still on hangers, still hung in her order. The smell was the smell of her, hand cream and basement laundry. You came in with the spare key. You only meant to water the fern.
The white shirt was on the hanger nearest the door. You picked it up to fold for the box you would mail her in the morning. Your hands were not packing. Your hands were threading themselves into the sleeves. The hair at the back of your neck grew warm at the roots and went pink at the tips. The shirt buttoned itself down the front, then unbuttoned the top two. The hem rose to mid-thigh. The kitchen knife was on the counter where she had left it—
You looked down. Your chest filled the shirt. The hem brushed the back of your thighs. Pink hair fell across one eye. Your old voice tried something in your throat and her laugh came out instead. The laugh cut off on its own. You stood very still in the kitchen and the lamp behind you threw your shadow onto the floor in a shape that was not your shape.
You walked to the window the way she walked to it. You leaned your forehead on the cold glass the way she had. The reflection in the pane was Mira. The lipstick on the rim of a glass on the counter was Mira's color and you wanted, suddenly, to wear it. The wanting came in low and clean. It had Dani's name folded inside it.
You picked up the knife. You did not decide to. The handle warmed in your palm. You set it down on the chopping block, then picked it up again, then set it down. You opened the cabinet over the stove. There were two clean mugs and one with red lipstick at the rim. The lipstick had her color. You took it.
***
Dani came in without knocking. He had keys. He took two steps inside, stopped in the hall, and said your old name as a question. You stood in the kitchen light in Mira's shirt. He did not say her name. He stared. He did not move.
You crossed the room. Your hips knew the angle she walked at. He stayed where he was. You took his hand and pressed it to the open V of the shirt. You did not say anything. You let his palm sit on the warm skin between your breasts and watched him decide. He did not pull away. He did not blink. You took a step forward and he took a step back. He bumped against the couch.
You undid the last button and let the shirt fall open. You sat in his lap, straddling him on the couch, knees on the cushions. He unbuckled. You lifted on your knees and came down on him. His hands found your hips through Mira's body and gripped where she would have wanted them. Your mouth went to his throat. You moved on him.
His breathing went short. You felt your laugh in the back of your throat and let it out and it was hers. The thought arrived fully formed and was not yours and then was: Mira had always wanted him here, on this couch, and tonight he had come back to her. Your old name was a sound that did not fit your mouth anymore. He came under you. You came around him. The old you watched from somewhere small, and then from nowhere.
He held you against him for one long breath. You sat up and buttoned the shirt back, one button, then two, the way she would have. He said her name into the air between you. You smiled. The kitchen lamp was still on. The knife was still on the chopping block where you had left it.