While his converted firehouse home was drafty enough that a continuous breeze swept across the exposed brick walls and over the hardwood floors, it was no match for the stench. “Great,” he muttered to himself as he threw open the window over the sink. The night’s chill rushed in, freezing the hairs inside his nose, and he shoved the window closed again. As soon as he did, the stink hit him square in the face. He was weighing the benefits of freezing versus being a mouth–breather when the doorbell dinged. He whipped around and stared at the front door. She probably never burned popcorn. Hell, she probably hand–popped her own organic kernels in something vintage for the prescribed five–point–two minutes. Diiiiiiiiiing! Longer this time. As though she knew he was inside trying to stuff the last pair of dirty Jockey shorts under the bed. In reality, he’d rolled all the clothes from his floor into a ball and crammed them into the dryer fifteen minutes ago. God, he was pathetic.
