“I’d like to talk to you.”
Pause.
“Can I get changed?”
“Sure.”
She came back in a few minutes wearing my black dress shirt and a pair of faded jeans. Her damp hair curled, straw-brown. She stood barefoot to the side of the fridge, smiling politely. Expectantly.
“We’re not going to get very far if we can’t open up,” I said. There were two cups of coffee on the table.
She gazed at the cabinetry, as if stuck for a response.
“You should know me,” I continued. “Not because I’m the host but because I can’t have you or anyone else here without . . . I don’t know. Context? It drives me nuts: you know nothing about me, and I know less about you because you’re trying to be a good Space Girl and protect me from the future. So, let me tell you a little about me,” I said, sensing her anxiousness
