Over the next week, A.J. and I settle in to a routine. I go to work; he drives by on his motorcycle at least four times during the day to check on me. I come home after work; he cooks dinner. (He graduates from pancakes to omelets to French toast. The man has a serious addiction to eating breakfast foods for supper.) I clean up; he plays the piano or does some amazing drum solo on the practice kit he keeps in what used to be the lobby bar, whaling on it until his fingers bleed like that kid in Whiplash. Or he reads to me. Or we watch a movie. Or, or, or one of a thousand different things.
Showers and baths are taken together.
Everything, in fact, we do together, right down to folding laundry.
I had no idea living with another person could be so much fun.
“I never thought I’d meet a wom
