My friend is very interesting but not about his apartment.
He talks about the fact the drain in the sink sometimes clogs, about how the refrigerator sucks more energy than he is comfortable with, it being 2010, about how the bedroom closet can barely contain his clothes, let alone the other things he needs stored away.
He says there are a number of issues with the shower.
My friend has cold hands, says he always has, and the touch of them when he shakes mine sends shivers down my spine. I often prefer to greet him with a hug, when we meet, to keep this a less common occurrence, the shivers I mean.
I once was out with my interesting friend for dinner at a relatively nice restaurant and he was talking about his apartment and I found myself glancing at the rest of the room we were in, trying to focus on the talking but finding the room more interesting.
An older woman with a significantly younger man was being fed her dinner with a spoon by the significantly younger man. There seemed to be some vagueness to their relationship. I couldn’t tell if he was her son or her lover, and probably neither could she.
Two women, in the corner, bickered bitterly about whether or not one was a slut, or a whore, or both. The one being accused threw a dinner roll in the other one’s face. They continued arguing, the accosted with a smear of butter across her face.
A waiter was both reciting the evening’s specials and chewing the leftovers of a recently bussed table. It was only the gulp after saying “...with a side of rosemary-scented polenta” that gave it away.
My interesting friend was slowing down, possibly aware of my disinterest in hearing about wooden floors? windows that don’t open all the way? I couldn’t tell. He took a bite of his steak and continued:
“and, I said, well, isn’t that interesting?”
