Chapter 4

He looked around and said, “Sad news. One toothbrush. One bath towel. You’re definitely single, pal. Let’s see your bedroom. But only if you want to.”

“I have nothing to hide.”

The bedroom looked like a tomb: no windows, bad lighting, nothing on the walls, queen-sized bed that looked as if it belonged in a Super 8. Books on the floor. No dresser. Clothes folded in plastic bins. It was tidy, but blah

“Damn, this looks pretty wretched,” Mag said. “What happened in here?”

“It’s called a budget. I’m still decorating.”

“At least the bed’s made.”

“Single or not single?” I asked, still playing his game.

He turned to me in the doorframe, grazed his chest to mine, glued his eyes to mine, and said, “Doesn’t matter. I determined you were Mr. Single in the living room.”

“That obvious, huh?”

“Big time!”

* * * *

We ended up back in the kitchen and enjoyed a second IPA each. Then he started asking me questions as if we were on a date. Not that I minded, but I did find it odd.