“What the hell are you doing?”
This was awkward. REALLY awkward. But I guess I should have expected it. He’s been kind of a weirdo since he moved into the building years ago.
A pair of tighty-whiteys were on his head. He was holding a broom, but the way he was cradling it, I could tell he thought it was a gun. I thought he didn’t like guns, so I asked him about it.
“What’s with the gun?”
“Whatta ya expect? It’s the damned CIA, they teamed up with the gypsies, I have no choice.”
His eyes went wilder than usual, and I noticed that his long, dark hair wasn’t just messy, but cluttered with sticks and dirt. Then I whiffed the odd smell of peanut butter.
“Why does it smell like peanut butter?” I asked, looking around the room.
“Oh, that would be me. I ran out of shampoo.”
“So you used peanut butter?”
“Yeah,” he said matter-of-factly.
He reached for the door as if to close it with me still standing in the doorway. How rude. Then I realized the one question I should have asked, but confusion distracted my normal brain patterns.
“What are you doing in my closet?”
“You’re my sworn enemy. They’ll never think to look for me here.”
“I see. Can you leave?”
“Can I have some macaroni and cheese?”
“How…how did you know what I was making for dinner?”
“I can smell it.”
An awkward moment.
“Sure. Pull up a chair, but leave the gun. No weapons at the dinner table.”