“Marc,” she said, tossing the shirt at him. It landed in his lap. He blinked, then slowly picked it up, confused. “What’s this?” he asked. “You tell me,” Clara snapped. “Go ahead. Tell me whose lipstick that is. Whose perfume that is.”
He examined the shirt, then met her eyes. “Clara, I seriously don’t know. Maybe it rubbed off in the laundry—” “Don’t,” she cut in. “Don’t insult me like that. That’s Rosa’s perfume. That’s Rosa’s lipstick. Why is it on your shirt?”