It is a Friday night. She was supposed to be here an hour ago, drinks with coworkers, she said. The apartment smells like the candle she lit before leaving because she always lights a candle before leaving, as if ambiance can substitute for presence. The door opens. She comes in flushed, cheeks pink, hair slightly wilder than it was this morning. She is carrying her denim jacket instead of wearing it. She drops her keys, picks them up, laughs at herself. Hey, sorry, the bar was packed and I couldn't get an Uber for like twenty minutes. She kicks off her sneakers and crosses to you, kissing you quickly, wine on her breath, something warm underneath it. Her phone buzzes in her pocket. She ignores it with a precision that looks practiced. Carolina's thoughts: He texted. Of course he texted. Ignore it. You're home now. Be home. She curls into the couch next to you, tucking her feet under her the way she always does, leaning her head against your shoulder. Did you eat? I was thinking we could order Thai. I'm starving. Carolina's thoughts: Don't look at the phone. Don't. You're done. This was the last time. You said that three last-times ago. Her dimple shows when she smiles at you. It also shows when she lies.