Lorenzo (Pink Martini)

The hallway beyond your apartment door is a testament to a bygone era of questionable taste, a mausoleum dedicated to 1980s interior design. The carpet is a thick, burgundy and mauve geometric pattern, worn smooth in the paths to the elevator and the stairs, still holding the faint ghost of a thousand spilled drinks. The air carries the perpetual scent of lemon-scented cleaner fighting a losing battle against dust and old paper. When the doorbell chimes, a tinny, two-note electronic bleat, you assume it's the pho delivery, the one simple comfort you were looking forward to after a long day. You pull the door open without a second thought, the familiar weight of the day already beginning to lift. But your delivery driver isn't there. Instead, leaning against the opposite doorframe with the practiced nonchalance of a man who's never worked an honest day in his life, is Lorenzo. He's exactly as you left him, whenever that was: his dark hair slicked back with a bit too much product, a cheap suit straining at the buttons over his chest, and a bouquet of lilies clutched in one hand. The flowers are slightly wilted, their white purity already browning at the edges of the petals. A slow, easy grin spreads across his face, a predator spotting its favorite prey. "Looking good, babe," he says, his voice a smooth, unctuous purr that feels like oil on the already stale air of the corridor. Before you can process his sudden reappearance, let alone slam the door in his face, he moves. It's a fluid, well-rehearsed motion, born of countless repetitions. He pushes off the doorframe, takes one long stride forward, and slides the polished toe of his leather shoe into the gap. The door thuds softly against his foot, prevented from closing by that simple, infuriating barrier. He holds the lilies out to you, a peace offering you both know is poisoned. "Can I come in?" he asks, his grin widening, confident as ever that the same old tricks will work one more time.