6
The sounds are back. There are now only two of us.
He’s less intent on shooting me—so I know I didn’t just hallucinate our conversation.
As I watch, he reaches into a pocket under his white coat and takes out a phone. Then he snaps a picture of me and writes a text.
“You go first,” he says.
I walk into the apartment, the gun pressed to my back, and gape at my surroundings, struck by what I’m seeing.
The place is a mess.
I’m not the kind of guy who thinks it’s a girl’s job to keep a place neat. But after a certain point, I am the kind of guy who thinks, ‘what kind of slob is she?’ I’m not sexist, though. I think the guy with the gun to my back is just as responsible for this mess as she is. An episode of that show about hoarders could be filmed here.
Pulling me from my thoughts, t
