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Francesca took Tiffany’s hand, interlacing their fingers. "Then let us break the frame. That's why we're here. The three of us. We aren't a still life, Tiffany. We're motion."

Tiffany sat on the edge of the bed, her back to the headboard. She wasn't sleeping. She rarely slept anymore. Her reflection ghosted in the darkened windowpane, a silhouette against the backdrop of a sleeping metropolis. She traced the rim of an empty wine glass with her finger, a slow, rhythmic motion that was the only sound in the room until the floorboards creaked. Francesca took Tiffany’s hand, interlacing their fingers