Constance thought she could finally stop looking over her shoulder. She has a steady job as a hairstylist, rents a small apartment next door to her best friend, and keeps a routine that distracts her just enough to not have to dwell on her past.
All...
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I can't believe that the dirty homeless guy is built like a freight train. I guess I can't call him dirty anymore but still. His body is all muscle; like actual hard muscle not those fake steroid flabs. He completely broke down my door with one... uh, kick? Maybe he punched it. All I know is he hit it once and it went down like a pancake. I wanted to be mad but the second I saw his naked torso I decided I hated the door anyways.
Why was it even there in the first place and is there anything else the shirtless hobo can destroy for me?
What was I thinking bringing him into my house?
The smelly old shoe turned into whatever the male version of a glass slipper is. I put myself in a very awkward situation. I can't believe I held his hand and pulled him around; more importantly, I can't believe he let me.
I shuffle my way into the restroom ready to see the kind of mess a man as dirty as him could leave behind. I expected mud coating every surface, hair ends clogging the drain and streaks of brown down the tiles but instead I'm completely surprised. He must have cleaned up after himself because the shower is spotless, probably cleaner than it has been in the last five years that I've lived here.
Not that I'm complaining, in fact, I should probably thank him. Or hire him.
Absolutely not!
I know where my mind is leading me and there is no way I'm going down that road.
I pick up his clothes, which by the way, weigh as much as a large dog, and take them to the laundry room. Tossing them into the washer takes enough energy to move a sofa with how much they weigh. They smell so bad and I'm afraid that if I wash them, they'll fall apart because the dirt was holding them together but I'm definitely not giving him them back looking like they went mud wrestling without him.
Hoping he'll have to stay naked?
No!
Maybe. . .
Shut up!
For my own sanity he can't just walk around naked. That would be very bad for my dusty ovaries so I grab my robe for him from my room and then head back out. It won't cover much but hopefully it covers enough.
When I get to the living room the guy is gone. I look through every room, closet and hiding spot but turn up empty.
Surely he wouldn't leave with only a towel, would he?
There is a knock at the door and relief spreads over me. The dummy probably got locked out. I open the door wide with my hand on my hip and a big smile on ready to scold him for leaving when a dozen police officers run past me in a blur of blue and black.
