But today is the "Let's talk" blogfest, so talk we shall. I just did some very light revisions on this piece, and trust me, I'm sure I missed great gobs of stuff. So comment away, okay? (Did you notice that rhymed? Yeah, I'm tired.) It's long, so stop reading whenever you want.
“Excuse me?” she asked.
“I asked what your name is.”
This wasn’t at all going the way she wanted it too. This wasn’t how she imagined intruders. This wasn’t how she imagined anyone. “What’s yours?”
He grinned. “Okay, then. You can call me John.”
“John what?” she asked. She crossed her arms.
“There is no last name. You can call me John.”
“You have to have a last name.”
“I do, but I don’t want you to call me by it. Now, aren’t you going to tell me your name?”
“It doesn’t matter what my name is,” she said. “However, since this is my place, and not yours, and I don’t know you and I doubt very much that you are friends with my roommate, who, by the way, will be home very soon, it matters very much what your name is.”
“Fair enough,” he said.
They stared at each other while he ate the sandwich.
“So, your roommate’s coming?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, hoping he couldn’t tell she was lying.
“He’s your boyfriend?” he asked.
“Yes, yes, he is,” she said. “And he won’t take kindly to you, I can tell you.”
John smiled, and stepped forward. He dropped his voice. “He must make love to you every night, and thank his lucky stars that he’s with you as he does,” he said.
“Excuse me?” She flushed again, and stepped back into the refrigerator.
“And he must really like the color pink, too,” he said. “Because it’s everywhere in here.” He tipped his head, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “But you don’t seem like a pink sort of girl.”
Did he see everything? No, she didn’t like pink as much as Jenna. Jenna was the reason behind the pink.
“You don’t have a boyfriend coming home,” he said. “I doubt that you have a boyfriend.”
She looked up at him, embarrassed and angry. “You don’t know anything.”
“I don’t know about that.” He laughed.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
He ignored her question. “You don’t have a boyfriend. You’re buttoned up to here,” he said, pointing at her neck. She reached up and fingered the offending button. “You’re bursting to be loved, to be that object. And you’re afraid. Not just of me. You’re afraid.”
“And you,” she said, her cheeks burning. She was angry. Angry that he could see things. She fingered the top button of her shirt again. “You’re hiding out. You’re afraid. You expect me to believe you, and you come in here and tell me about my awful existence, and stand as close as you can, and you know what you’re doing—you know…”
He grinned, and she stood up.
“You need to go now.”
“I don’t want to go,” he said. “I like you, you know.”
“No, I don’t, and I don’t like you.”
“You tend to get to read people well, when you have to,” he said.
“You didn’t even tell me your real name.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I did.” He smiled. “You ought to have a boyfriend. Someone to love you.”
“Who are you hiding from?” she asked him.
He sighed. “From the police,” he said. “You should have figured that out by now.”
“I had.” She glared at him.
“I didn’t kill anyone,” he said.
“Then what did you do, and why are you here?” she asked. “I’m tired of asking.”
“Then it’s a good time to stop,” he said. “And speaking of that, maybe we should go back to the other room—you don’t look comfortable, up against the refrigerator like that.” He smiled. “Nice, but not comfortable.”
**Some notes: Jenna is her roommate; he is escaped from prison and ended up at her and Jenna's apartment on a weekend in which she (unnamed character) is all alone.