I must have been so tired, so utterly exhausted, that I accidentally fell asleep in a stranger’s bed and slept through the entire party.

In the morning, in the kitchen, everyone was exceptionally friendly and nice about it, and they even offered me fresh squeezed juice for breakfast. Embarrassed because I hadn’t properly registered any names, I kept my head down and eyes fixed on the impeccably clean and shiny countertop, on an island nearly as long and just as white as the entire room, which was flooded with pure sunlight.

Slowly emerging from my personal stupor, confused at having woken up in a place I hardly recognized, I scanned the unfamiliar heads complete with matching halos from where the sun sliced through their juice glasses and onto the glowing marble, reflecting rings of bright orange back onto their warm and smiling faces. It was then I finally came to realize where I sat. This was the home of Michael Imperioli.

As his gaze turned to meet mine, I was immediately struck by two thoughts. The first was that he was obviously too old for me. The second was a crystal-clear revelation that at some point, during what could only have been the previous night, we had fallen deeply and inextricably in love. It was a feeling most easy to decipher, although up until that moment I couldn’t remember having even met him.

Jacuzzi? he mouthed from across the island, flashing me a private look that seemed at once meant for me alone, and also a dash promiscuous.

I nodded and took his hand willingly as he ushered us both across the smooth, cool floor, and I wondered, briefly, if I might have been sleepwalking. Before you got to the room with the jacuzzi, you had to pass through another smaller room where you could remove and hang up your clothes. The room felt humid, like a preview for what was next; the windows and mirrors appeared coated in a thin layer of moisture that must have seeped in from the steamier, adjacent room—where the undulation of a dozen powerful water jets could be heard on the other side of the wall. For such a large and probably very expensive house, the walls did not seem particularly fortified, or even entirely solid.

I startled at his touch as Michael Imperioli swaddled me from behind, wrapping one of those plush and weighty spa-grade robes—of which he wore an identical version—around my shoulders. In the fogged-up mirror before me, I could detect only the glint of a tiny gold cross he wore on his chest, resting on a soft bed of salt and pepper hair that peeked out from beneath his robe. With an oversized towel-y sleeve, I wiped the condensation from the mirror and once again thought myself to be staring into the face of a stranger.

I couldn’t seem to recall when my hair had turned white—or mostly white, white with a little gray—just like Michael Imperioli’s. Had the change happened all at once and suddenly overnight, or was the effect so gradual that it had been occurring all along, essentially hiding, up until now, in plain sight?

Perceptive as he was, Michael Imperioli seemed to pick up on my hesitation. You look great, he whispered into my neck, then continued to guide me by the elbow through the flimsy doorway that led straight to the jacuzzi, before coming to a pause.

Oh, hi Michael, came a voice from somewhere in the room, floating up like a mist from the surrounding water. Sorry, we’ll be done soon.

That’s fine, Kim—take your time, he replied, holding up one hand as if to say stop, no explanation necessary. I stepped out from behind him and finally got a good look at the woman he was speaking with. There lounged Kim Kardashian stretched out and naked despite being partially covered in soapy bubbles. I also became aware of a sizable crowd surrounding the jacuzzi and in the nearby wings, most of them armed with professional-looking cameras aimed directly at Kim, who was playfully splashing around in the tub. At least a handful of the onlookers appeared to be merely fans, shamelessly fawning over her, encouraging her—which seemed to have the effect of making her even more animated, simultaneously preening while waving and blowing kisses back at them.

We’ll have to come back later, he told me, apologetically. I felt my face flush with heat and put a hand up to my cheek as if to obscure my pained expression. I was admittedly annoyed and a little jealous—threatened, I suppose. Sensing my frustration, Michael Imperioli again put his arms around me, to pacify me.

Don’t be threatened, he said reassuringly, in a hushed tone. She’s not even my type. His eyes sparkled conspiratorially, and with a touch of amusement. I knew what he meant, but still I took no consolation in my own narrow hips, my shallow breasts.

From that morning on, I would stay with Michael Imperioli indefinitely, it was decided, unofficially. I had no intention of leaving; the thought never even crossed my mind. I must have had some kind of home to return to, some other former life with friends and a family, personal goals, possibly a job. But if I had, it was now only a hazy memory, a mere clot or stain in my otherwise vacant rear view.

Later, in Michael Imperioli’s bed, I awoke in the middle of the night to a woman standing over me. She had long white and gray streaked hair, not unlike his, and I guess now like mine, 3too. She was much older though, even older than Michael Imperioli. She wore all black with a single stiff plume standing erect from the center part of her hair, attached by a band that encircled her forehead. I saw that she carried with her a small doll, which appeared to be an identical version of herself, also dressed in black but with a much tinier feather.

You have to be willing to walk away, she seemed to be saying, although no sound came from her mouth. I nodded as though I understood, but of course I already knew then that I never would.

In the morning, I found Michael Imperioli tenderly stroking my hair. I trusted my soulmate was on the way and here you are, he told me. It’s like I just woke up one day all of a sudden to find you here.

That was pretty much exactly how it happened, I thought, still unsure how I had ended up at his house in the first place.

Soooo, what are my best traits? I asked him. In your opinion.

He carried on for quite some time, as if running down a pre-written list in his mind that he had somehow memorized, or like he was casually ticking off his favorite pizza toppings

I must have looked doubtful, because as he came to the end of his inventory he added…and I have far too much respect for you to ever cross you. I think the reason we were drawn together is because we are both a little psychic, he added, which felt immediately accurate.

You know…he went on, looking thoughtful…you really do have a pretty face. Michael Imperioli pushed me away a little and held me at an arm’s length, so that he might better consider me. It’s only the expressions you make that are unattractive, he said finally.

What happened next is too much to tell, but we did get married and he helped me start a small but successful business. It was a simple yet brilliant service, where I offered what was essentially set design, but on-demand. I would travel to different locations with a van full of props and costumes and decorations of assorted aesthetics and instantly create whatever mood or atmosphere the customer had ordered. Then, when they were finished with whatever they had needed that particular look for, I would pack everything up again and drive to the next town.

One day upon returning home, after temporarily transforming a client’s kitchen into an exotic greenhouse, Michael Imperioli was waiting for me at the door with a grim look on his face.

I don’t know how to tell you this, but…you can’t stay here anymore, he said finally. I have to take care of this dog—

Kim’s dog? I asked.

Does it matter? The point is that everyone thinks you will rile him up too much. He needs peace and quiet—a soothing environment.

The funny thing was, at that moment, I couldn’t remember ever having said more than maybe two words aloud at any given time, maybe never, since I had been staying at Michael Imperioli’s house.

You understand, he said gravely, pulling the door closed as if in slow motion until he disappeared fully, finally behind it, not entirely unsympathetic, but still.

Since then, I have had a recurring dream where I find myself standing there at his door, just screaming and screaming at it, until he eventually opens it and I slap him right across the face.

I think this is a good sign. I think this means I’m finally learning to stand up for myself.