mouthful of rice and chicken.
“You’re welcome.” He has been nursing his beer, which I only notice because he didn’t get one for himself. I’m wondering if I’m being rude or something, so I look up at him, and he’s munching on his chips, sipping his beer, and acting like he doesn’t have a care in the world. How can I describe this to you? He’s just so casual about everything. He’s sitting on the same kind of stool as me, but the way he’s sitting is kind of leaning towards the counter. Not slouching but leaning. He’s so comfortable. I mean, I don’t know if he’s actually comfortable, but he looks so comfortable. And then I feel it. For the first time, I realize that it’s not just that he’s gorgeous—it’s me. I’m attracted to him. Oh, hell no! Fuck that! I take a big swig of beer and shove another mouthful of food into my mouth, trying to distract myself. There’s no way I’m going to ruin this good thing—no—this great thing I have going by developing feelings for him. Not like that. I’m not going down like that. How weird would that be, anyway? I all but offered myself to him that first night, and he made it clear that he didn’t want to fuck me, so he’s not gay, and even if he were, he’s not into me at all. So there’s no way. Not going there.
And before you call the PC police on my ass, I’m not a homophobe or anything like that. Whatever people choose to do in the privacy of their own home is fine with me. I mean, who would I be to talk about it anyway? I’ve had sex with guys before—for money even. I don’t think that makes me gay, does it? And even if it did, what difference does it make? Even if I were gay and he were gay, I wouldn’t want to develop feelings for him because nothing good could come of it, right? We’re just kind of, sort of roommates, and his dog likes me, so I’m hanging out with him for a while and that’s it. No way I’m going to let feelings interfere with that. Period. Hell, I don’t even know the guy. You know when people say that things “have a mind of their own” when unexpected shit happens? Well, my mind kind of has a mind of its own. The fuck if it ever listens to me. Or pays attention to what I want to pay attention to. It just wanders off like an untrained puppy looking for a sneaker to chew on or something. I don’t want to be thinking about Michelangelo right now. I just want to enjoy my food and my beer and think about my new clothes and the shower I’m going to take and the bed I’m going to sleep in and the breakfast I’m going to have in the morning. But my fucking brain is going to do whatever the fuck it wants—and right now, it wants to remind me that I just said I don’t know the guy.
And if I don’t acknowledge that fact, my brain is going to keep needling me until I do something about it. So I better get it over with or I’m going to drive myself crazy. I look at my mostly clean plate and pick up my beer, looking at Michelangelo as I take a generous swig. “Man, that was really good. Thanks.”
“No problem,” he says casually.
“Can I ask you a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Will you let me clean up, please?” I hope I didn’t sound too desperate.
“If you feel that strongly about it, sure. I mean, I have a dishwasher, so it’s no big deal.”
“Yeah. I do feel kind of strongly about it,” I say as I stand up and walk my dishes to the kitchen. I feel proud of myself until I get to the sink and realize that I have no idea where the dishwasher is. The cabinets all look the same. And the cabinets on either side of the sink are just blank—no handles or buttons or dials. Just . . . cabinets. I look back to the counter, and Michelangelo is smiling and pointing to my right. Okay. Got it. Of course, now that I know where it is, I have no idea how it opens. Fuck me. I look back towards Michelangelo, and he’s laughing.
“Just push in at the top.”
I push the top of the cabinet and it pops open. I’m impressed and embarrassed at the same time, and I can feel my face starting to get red. I guess I’m more embarrassed than impressed. No matter, there’s a certain calm that comes over you when you realize that you have already made a fool of yourself. He stands up and brings me the rest of the dishes, gently placing them in the sink and moving off to the living room with his beer. I glance up from the dishes and see that he’s standing in the same place in front of the large picture window looking over the beach. I finish putting the dishes in and start to close the door. “Should I start it or something?”
“Nah. It’s not full yet. Don’t worry about it.”
I close the cabinet, grab my beer, and walk over to stand next to him. I take a swig of my beer and look at him, trying to read his expression. No luck. “So what’s your story?”
“Huh? My ‘story’?” He looks down at me, gray eyes flashing.
“Um, yeah. I don’t know anything about you. Not really.”
“I could say the same thing about you.”
“You could. But would you?”
“I might.”
“Does that leave us at an impasse?” I ask, beginning to like the banter.
“Not necessarily.”
“Do you have any brilliant ideas on where to go from here?” I can see him smiling.
“In fact, I do.” He turns to me and gestures to the couch. “Let’s sit.”
I sit on the couch and he takes the chair next to me. “Please share.”
He takes a sip of his beer and looks me right in the eye. “It’s a little game called Five Questions.”
“And how does it work?”
“Simple. You ask me a question, and I have to answer it honestly or else if I don’t want to answer, or don’t want to answer honestly, you get to ask me another question.”
“And what happens if you do answer?”
“Then it’s my turn to ask you a question, and you have to abide by the same rules.”
“When does it end?”
“When five questions are answered.” He smiles again. “Got it?”
“Any other rules?”
“Nope. The only rule is that you have to tell the truth. If you don’t want to tell the truth, you can’t answer at all.”
“You seem to be enjoying this a little too much. What are you hiding?”
He laughs. “Good catch. It’s actually not quite as simple as it seems.”
“Tell me why,” I say, beginning to get intrigued.
“Most people think that the other person can’t learn anything important if you just don’t answer the questions you don’t like.”
“Makes sense.”
“Does it?” he asks in a high voice.
“Doesn’t it?”
“Not if you’re paying attention. I can usually learn more about people from the questions they don’t answer.”
“Ooooh. Tricky.”
“Do
