He’d gone— she knew it the moment she turned the brushed pewter venetian styled doorknob atop the escutcheon designed in early William Morris mortise handleset style. As the two-panel door of Burmese teak with triple glazed glass panels swung silently open on extruded hinges featuring satin-nickel, acorn-shaped finials, she marveled that a fortnightly rubdown with mineral oil purchased from the clinically obese Salvadoran woman at the Thursday afternoon jumble sale, kept the 3x4 hinges as silent as had the mysterious and expensive goo purchased from the young girl whom Scott had brought home, claiming her to be a Swedish refugee from Au-Pairs-Without-Borders. Sure enough, there was no one in the apartment, which, she realized, had technically been a condominium since that 503 to 108 vote last June. She felt the sudden ache one experiences swallowing a very slushy margarita or double dip French vanilla swirl in a sugar cone.
Frank
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-- Frank
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