The bathroom is just a little larger than a telephone booth, but the water is scalding hot and I manage to wash away the staleness of a day on the road. I put on a pair of jeans and a clean white shirt and am starting to dry my hair with a towel when there's a knock at the door. I peer through the window, see Torben holding a brown paper bag, and open it. Immediately my mouth fills with saliva at the smell of hot fries and meat. Torben raises the bag as if he's justifying his appearance at my door, but then freezes as he looks at me. For a moment I wonder if there's a hole in my shirt or some kind of horrific smear on my forehead, but then Torben actually blushes and looks down and away, moving past me to set the brown paper bag on the small circular table in the corner. Oh, I think, and feel myself flush in return. There's nothing wrong with me. The exact opposite. Seeing me with my hair wet and skin warm and damp from the shower got to him in some way. I'm suddenly nervous to close the door.
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