The morning sun streamed through the curtains of Amy's small apartment, catching the dust motes that floated lazily in the air. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, a cup of tea cooling on the nightstand, her phone pressed to her ear.
"So then he shows me the third floor," Amy said, laughing. "And it's just... empty. Completely empty. And he's like, 'This is where the art goes.' And I'm like, 'Ken, there's no art.' And he says, 'Exactly. That's the point. I get to fill it.'"
On the other end of the line, Laura snorted. "That's such a Ken thing to say. Dramatic and impractical."
"But also kind of beautiful, right?" Amy leaned back against her pillows, looking up at the ceiling. "I mean, think about it. Months back, he was sleeping on my couch, eating cold ramen, and now he owns a six-story building in the arts district."
"Months back, he was also dating Death and didn't know it," Laura pointed out. "So maybe we shouldn't act like everything was fine."
