MARI
Pierce and I sat across from one another at the kitchen table he preferred over the formal dining room. The feeling was mutual. In this part of his home, I could see the ocean outside his large windows. Pierce sat with his back to the view, his attention consumed by a stack of papers he’d brought with him from his office. He never looked at the ocean.
The only place I saw Pierce anymore was the breakfast table. Nothing changed between us as time ticked away each second. Nothing but losing his housekeeper slash sometimes cook. I would’ve taken the task up myself, but I was a guest in Pierce’s home, and even though he tried to tell me on multiple occasions to make myself at home, this wasn’t a long-term arrangement. I needed to remind myself not to get too comfortable.