When I shut off the water, the fragrance of my body wash is quickly overrun by that of fresh coffee. Pretty sure Humboldt hasn’t learned how to use the French press (yet), so someone must be here.
Butterflies awaken, their wings coated with the Pepto Bismol splashing in my gut.
I hurry into my robe, my wet hair wrapped in a towel, bad breath erased with mouthwash. An examination in the mirror does not deliver a visage I’m proud of, but I also don’t want whoever is here to leave.
Bracing for what’s coming, I open the door and shuffle down the hall.
“I knocked, but you didn’t answer. Came to make sure he had his antibiotics.”
“Did I leave the door unlocked?”
“No. I took your keys last night. In case I needed to get in urgently.”
“And so I wouldn’t leave.”
“Driving Rupert’s Tesla into
