Page 3 of Untying the Knot
Tall, broad with brown hair, a man stands in front of me sporting a pair of baggy sweatpants and a plain black T-shirt. His long fingers twitch at his sides as his sculpted shoulders set back when he realizes he’s not alone. Hiding under a Studmuffins hat is a piercing set of blue eyes that carry confusion as he looks me up and down.
“Who the hell are you?” he asks.
I toss a grape in my mouth and answer, “A guest to this residence. Who the hell are you?”
“The renter of this residence,” he responds.
“Ah, well . . . it would help guests greatly if you offer them more variety of snacks when they come over. Protein bars and grapes aren’t going to cut it.”
He glances around, clearly looking for any indication of what the hell is going on, and then turns back toward me. “Who are you here with? Banner?”
“Why yes, I am, technically.” I hold my finger up to my mouth and say, “Now, shush. You’re interrupting my show.”
He glances at the TV and then back at me again. “Where the hell is Banner?”
“God, you with the questions.” I roll my eyes. “He’s upstairs with my best friend having sex.”
“And you’re down here, eating grapes and watching a show?”
“Yes, that’s precisely what’s happening. Good job stating the obvious.”
He pulls on the back of his neck and shakes his head. “I don’t have the fucking patience right now to deal with this.”
“Good, then you can leave me to my show.” With another shake, he heads up the stairs when I say, “Uh, dude . . . man, guy.”
“Ryot,” he says.
“What’s that now?”
“My name is Ryot.”
“Oh, that’s an interesting one. Okay then, parents attempting to make you popular straight out of the womb. Anyway, do you happen to have a blanket? There’s a swift breeze coming from the window, and I’d rather not catch a chill while sitting here.”
“No, I don’t,” he answers.
“You don’t have one single blanket?”
“Not for you to use,” he answers again. This time, he starts walking up the stairs.
“Sheesh, what kind of host are you?”
“I’m not. You shouldn’t be here.” And before I can respond, he’s out of earshot.
Well, he’s fucking rude.
It’s not like I asked for a homemade turkey dinner. I’m just looking for an ounce of comfort here.
Comfort I now need to find myself.
I glance around the downstairs and wonder if there’s a blanket in a closet somewhere but realize that if he doesn’t have even a single piece of junk food in the house, he’s not going to have a spare quilt from a kooky aunt just rolled up waiting to be used.
Urgh, that’s annoying.
A chill races up my spine as the air conditioner kicks on. This is not going to do.
I consider slipping my body under the couch cushions, but sure, their countertops might be clean, but who knows what has happened on this couch?
Do I ask for a spare sweatshirt?
