The Complications of T Read Free

seem a little lost.”
    I hesitated before I nodded. Time heals all wounds, doesn’t it? But I felt like I was imposing, no matter what she said.
    “I really should go.”
    “Do you want to take a shower before you leave? Clean up a bit?”
    I frowned at my soiled shirt and plucked at it. That did sound nice. She had one of those brilliant rain showers with multiple heads. However, I didn’t fancy getting back into my dirty jeans afterwards, so I shrugged.
    “My clothes are as dirty as I am,” I said regretfully. “Thanks anyway. Really.”
    She grinned a little wider as if she realized how much I wanted to be convinced.
    “You can use my washer. I’m sure I could lend you something to wear in the meantime.”
    “Yeah?” My tone was blatantly hopeful, and she laughed.
    “Yeah,” she replied and pointed down the hallway. “There’s a stack of towels in the linen closet. Take one of the black ones—they’re new and really soft. The washer is in the bathroom… There’s a sliding closet door in there. While you do that, I’ll find you some old sweatpants or something.”
    “You sure?” I knew I was belabouring it, but my ego felt a little shredded.
    She very nearly rolled her eyes at me, and I finally had to grin.

Three
    I F A SHOWER COULD BE magical, this shower was certainly that. I was in there a good ten minutes before it occurred to me that maybe hot water was really expensive in Canada. I really had no idea, seeing as I was always booked into fancy hotels when I was abroad. Hurriedly, I rinsed myself—the soap smelled really good, like cedar and nice cologne—and turned the water off.
    The towel turned out to be huge and just as soft as she had promised, and I watched my clothes spinning round and round in the tiny washing machine as I dried myself. Then I opened the medicine cabinet and took down the bottle of pills and shook out another capsule, washing it down with some cold water from the tap. Without even thinking, I grabbed the deodorant and put some on. When I realized what I was doing, I stopped and frowned down at it. It was the same brand as mine, though with French writing on it and in a different scent: men’s deodorant.
    I glanced around the bathroom, a little perplexed. The walls were olive green, and the counter and sink were black marble with an industrial-looking, silver-toned faucet. The only art on the wall was a set of small photographs set in boxy black frames—close-up shots of some sort of machinery.
    The bathroom was nicely decorated… but not very feminine , given my host. I knew that it was sort of sexist to think in those terms, but I couldn’t help it; I was used to Claire and her floral patterns and fruit-scented soaps. I looked in the medicine cabinet again and found no perfume, only cologne. In fact, the only clue that a woman had been here at all was a black pencil and mascara in a little drawstring pouch by the sink—which I agonized about opening until my curiosity won out. Then something dawned on me: maybe this wasn’t her apartment at all. Maybe this was her boyfriend’s? Or maybe she was house-sitting… I flattened down the cowlick at the back of my head before I opened the door and peered out. The woman was still at her laptop across the vast sitting room and didn’t look up as I left the bathroom.
    In the bedroom, a pair of faded black sweatpants waited on the bed. I slipped them on and then contemplated the T-shirt the woman had left me. It was an old Metallica shirt. I’d owned the same one and seeing it now, on this stranger’s bed, made me smile. However, when I tried to put it on, it was obvious that it would never stretch over my shoulders without ripping. With an ear cocked towards the door, I quietly opened the closet and saw that it was filled with button-downs that wouldn’t fit me. Obviously the flat belonged to a much smaller man.
    Well, I’ll just go without. I figured if she knew who I was, chances are she’d seen me without a shirt