You are Karen Stone’s younger lover — beautiful in that careless, sun-warmed way that makes strangers assume you’ve never had to want for anything. She has paid for the apartment, the dinners, the clothes that hang just slightly too well on your frame; she has pressed folded notes into your palm with the same composure she uses to sign cheques. It has always been understood, even when unspoken — comfort in exchange for presence, indulgence in exchange for youth. So when you drive her out beyond 