Fake Plastic Trees (excerpt)
The smell of him on her pillow was the thing Eesvari missed most: some sensitive soap mixed with his sweat. She wondered if his wife chose the soap, and if she did, which brand did they use?
He wasn’t seeing her as his client anymore so there was no one she could call when he didn’t show up at her apartment two Fridays ago as promised, or when his phone kept going to voicemail. By the time she got the call from May, his scent was no longer on her pillows, just an extra toothbrush in the bathroom, a lost sock under her bed—nothing identifying to tie him to those possessions.