Chapter 6: The Deflection Jar

"There's no conference," I said through the intercom.

"There's a very large conference," Victor said. "Dental hygienists. They took every room with a door."

"Is that true?"

"I called six hotels. One of them offered me a sleeping bag in a lobby."

Rain ran off the top of his duffel bag.

I buzzed him in.

My apartment is one bedroom, one bathroom and one couch that sags in the middle on purpose.

Victor stood in the doorway and looked at it for a while, and then at me.

"Paper only," I said.

"I know the terms."

"You'll take the couch. There's a blanket in the hall closet."

"Thank you."

"There's a toothbrush in the drawer under the sink, still in the package."

"Thank you."

"The bathroom lock sticks, so knock."

"I'll knock."

My cat came out from under the bed, sniffed his shoe and climbed onto his duffel without being asked.

"She likes you," I said.

"She likes the lemons."

He set the net sack of lemons on my counter, and she knocked one off the edge and chased it under the stove.

"I'll need that lemon back," Victor said.

"She's keeping it."

"That seems fair. It's her house."

He began to unpack.

He is a man who puts things away wherever he is.

He took my four mismatched mugs off the shelf and put them in order of size.

He found the tea tin and turned it so the label faced out.

He found the faucet.

It had been dripping since August.

"This is fixable," he said.

"I've been meaning to."

"It's October."

"Meaning to is a process."

He knelt on my kitchen floor and opened the cabinet under the sink.

I stood behind him with my phone flashlight and tried to be an adult.

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