I watched Tacoma eye the statue’s strong legs, its sharp chin, and the design of abs that created the saint’s lower torso. To break him from his silence and riveted gaze, I asked, “Would you like a glass of water, something to drink?”
He shook his head. “I would hate for you to go out of your way.”
“It wouldn’t be a bother.”
“Then maybe a glass of water is what I need.”
He followed me into the kitchen and we stood drinking glasses of fresh water with slivers of lemon at the island. “I hope you can start immediately, Tacoma. I really do need your assistance with the pool of death. I’m afraid if the smell grows more intense, I will die, among others in the area.”
“Yes. I think I can arrange that. I just have to pack a few things from my aunt’s and then I can find my way back here.”
“Tonight?” I asked, perhaps desperate for a roommate, a fresh companion, new boyfriend, lover, or someone to adore with my sponge-like eyes, soaking him into my world.