Her face was dewy, her cheekbones flushed with heat, and her afro was wet and matted to her head. “I figured it was you,” she said, and then, “I had to shower, and Ryan’s gone to work.” She backed away and made room for me inside. “I don’t usually answer the door half-naked. Just for the record.” I followed her up the stairs and kept my eyes on the grimy carpet as we moved to the second floor, the stains littering each landing like birthmarks, or scars of nights from the years they had lived there. She left me in the living room so she could get some clothes on, and I put my backpack on the couch and looked through the bookshelves while I waited for her to return. I ran my hand along the spines of hardbacks written by people I had never heard of: Walker Percy, Henry Miller, Annie Proulx, D. H. Lawrence, Charles Bukowski. I tapped my fingernail on the fishbowl. It didn’t seem right only having one fish there in the bowl moving aimlessly among plastic plants, and I wondered if he was lonely.
