Traces of a Stranger

Natalia opened the bedroom door.

The hallway was quiet. On the wooden floor sat a porcelain mug, its dark liquid skimmed over with cold skin. She stepped around it without touching the handle.

In the bathroom, the radiator hissed under the narrow window. A navy sheet hung over the iron fins, heavy with water. Natalia reached out and pressed the thick weave between her thumbs. It smelled of citrus and bergamot, a sharp scent that belonged to no bottle on her counter. Beside the sink sat an amber jar of almond oil, its cap smeared with greasy marks. A pink hair clip rested on the marble ledge.

She went into the kitchen.

The morning light through the courtyard transom hit the tall cabinets. On the top shelf, perched beyond her natural reach, sat the green mug. Natalia always kept that mug on the bottom rack beside the saucers. Someone tall had stretched up to put it away after washing it.

Her index finger and middle finger drifted to the hollow between her collarbones.

She opened the pantry door. The spice jars had been reorganized by height instead of name. A tin of Earl Grey tea sat next to the salt cellar; Natalia drank only chamomile. She picked up the tin and turned it over; the tin was clean, free of the dust that gathered on her own tins.

She opened the refrigerator. On the middle tray sat a tub of goat butter and three bottles of tonic water with yellow caps. Natalia never bought tonic water. Iván drank his coffee black and his water flat. She closed the cold door with a soft thud.

She turned toward the living room.

The parquet floor gave two sharp groans under her shoes. On the low table, the daily newspaper lay folded backward to the crossword grid. A blue pen rested in the middle seam, its cap chewed down to the clip. Iván never used ballpoint pens; he drafted exclusively in fine lead. Beside the paper, a red coaster sat on the left side of the wood.

Natalia walked over to the gray sofa.

The center cushion sat slightly askew, exposing the black lining beneath the armrest. She dropped to her knees on the rug and slid her flat hand deep into the seam between the seat cushion and the frame. Her fingers brushed against stiff paper.

She pulled her hand out into the daylight.

It was a thermal receipt from the market four blocks away on the avenue. She flattened the curling paper against her thigh.

The top line was dated three weeks prior, on the Saturday she had spent at her sister’s apartment in Bilbao. Below the timestamp of eight in the evening were three items: red wine, sourdough bread, and two packs of eggs.

Natalia stared at the purple digits.

This had not been a midnight emergency after a rainstorm. It was an established routine, repeated during her work trips and visits away.

She folded the receipt into a small square.

She slid the paper into the back pocket of her trousers.

From the foyer came the dry click of an umbrella handle setting down against the brass rack, followed by soft footfalls on the rug.