SEVEN

I take the elevator down to the lobby and take a quick look in the mirror at my outfit. Unlike Romina, I don't need high fashion, especially for my bi-weekly grocery store runs. My tank top, shorts, and favorite pair of sandals are ideal. I take a hold of my hair and wrap it around the top of my head in a knot. It's hot outside, and I despise being hot, especially when my hair is stuck to my neck.

I reach into my pocket for a folded piece of paper to double-check my shopping list. Romina stays at home with Andy on rare occasions to go grocery shopping. It's a welcome respite, and I'm grateful she agreed to let me go grocery shopping on my own. I adore Andrew, but it's difficult to shop for fresh meat and vegetables while also caring for a fussy baby. I'm not sure how hands-on parents do it without the help of a nanny or other help. I guess my maternal instincts aren't quite as developed yet, because Andy is constantly grabbing things, trying to rub everything along his teething gums now that he's older.

Before the doors slide open, the elevator dings loudly. I take a step outside and check my pockets for my keys. I'm always misplacing things. When it comes to shopping, I tend to focus on my list and sometimes forget about other important items, such as my keys and cell phone. I go through all of my pockets and, finally, my purse.

I rush out of the lobby and into the parking garage after finding both my keys and phone. When I'm out and about with Andy, I'm required to ride in the chauffeured car, but for my "me time" and shopping trips, I drive my own car, a blue Honda Civic with a small dent on the side. When I'm running errands, I need to be comfortable, and nothing beats driving my own car.

Mrs. Morales and her overly friendly dog nearly tackle me to the ground as I pass through the side of the lobby with the revolving doors. I catch myself and regain my balance in order to avert the disaster in mid-collision.

Mrs. Morales is a petite woman with a blue tint to her hair. She's what I like to refer to as "old money." She is the epitome of a professional widow, with incredible stories about each marriage. Her husbands died and left everything to her... all six of them. I'm not one to speculate, but I'm curious if all of their deaths were as natural as she claims.Maybe it's because I watch too many crime shows. Each man she married had a higher net worth than the previous one. She freely spends her money on her dog and whatever new boy toy she picks up for the evening because she has no children.

Mrs. Morales is the only one in the condo who does not have a purse dog, such as a miniature poodle or a yappy Maltese. Trixie, her giant German shepherd, had to be hers. Trixie, she swears, is just a puppy, but the size and heft of the bulldozer-like pet indicate otherwise.

Deep down, I'm a little envious of Trixie. She wears a diamond-encrusted collar and drinks only bottled water. I recall Mrs. Morales telling me the hefty price of that collar, even providing papers to prove she had it insured. The dog lives a better life than I do.

"Thank God, Avril, you arrived just in time," Mrs. Morales says, smiling to reveal yellow teeth with a smear of lipstick on them. "I need to return to my apartment for a moment." Trixie is in a bad mood and being a little obstinate."

I make a tight line with my lips. Every time I see Mrs. Morales, she addresses me incorrectly. I've been called Anne, Ava, and Anastasia on several occasions, and once all three names in the same conversation. At this point, I'm thankful she calls me by an A-name, even if it's the wrong one. She used to simply snap her fingers at me to get my attention when we first met.

After ignoring her and allowing a few elevator doors to "accidentally" close in her face, she began calling me by a name that wasn't mine.

"It's Aliyah," I clarify.

She claps her hand to her brow, her withered fingers weighted down with several diamond and ruby rings, as if she simply forgot.

"Aliyah, you're correct. "I'm sorry, honey," she apologizes. "As I mentioned, Trixie is being a little stubborn, so I just need you to hold her while I run upstairs to get some filet mignon to entice her back inside." Based on her obstinacy, I may have to call in the big guns to get that imported pâté she craves. At two grand a pop, I can see why she enjoys it so much."