“Oh, gross, sorry,” I said, stepping back. Pierre was now nearly as wet as I was, fuzzy remnants of soap suds sticking to the starched cotton of his shirt. I tried brushing it off, but gave up.

“Hey, um,” I said, now feeling a cold shiver run up and down my arms, “Do you have a shirt I could wear, or something?”

“In the bedroom,” he said. I wandered around the apartment, larger than I had imagined it to be, opening doors, peeking my head in until I found one that resembled a bedroom. I looked for a shirt, but everything was so neat and tucked away that I had to peek in the closet. Shirts were lined up in pristine, starched rows. A box caught my eye in the corner. It had the name ‘Elizabeth’ scrawled on the side, the top flap hanging open. It was full of women’s clothing. He had mentioned a previous wife, but I was curious why he had her things still.

Disregarding anything in my naked desperation, I grabbed a skirt and a camisole and threw them on hastily.