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“Okay,” she announces. “Your insurance most likely covers me, and I can drive for six months in Germany before I have to apply for a license.” She peers at the screen, and her eyes widen. She lifts her chin to stare at me, horrified. “Your highways have no speed limit?”
“Are you a good driver?”
She straightens. “I’m an excellent driver. I take a defensive driving course and a performance driving course at one of the local race tracks every two years.”
At my stare, she continues. “It’s a leading cause of death, at least in the US, and most of them are single-car accidents.”
“So, you can drive my car.”
She chews on her bottom lip, and her eyes drift off to the side. “Okay,” she says finally. “But I’ll fill your gas tank.”
I shrug, and she sips from her cup, watching me. The smell of green tea mixes with my cigarette smoke.
“What’s that noise?”
I sit up straighter, listening. “What noise?”
Sara gestures to my face. “You were making a weird clicking sound. Were you popping your jaw?”
“Oh.” I stick my tongue out so Sara can see the barbell that goes through the middle of my tongue. Her eyes widen, and I pull it back into my mouth. “I must have been tapping my teeth with it. Bad habit.”
I can’t read the look on her face. She takes another sip of her tea. “Anyway . . .”
I suspect she has a mental list that she's checking off.
“I know I’m only here for a few days—hopefully, if I can find a new apartment—but it would be nice to have a place to work that’s out of your way.”
I hook a thumb over my shoulder, pointing at my wing of the house. “I have an office that I work in most of the day, so you can set up whatever you need anywhere you like. Anything else?”
My tone is short to keep her from arguing about that too. It’s too early to discuss complicated logistics. I just want a coffee and a smoke.
Though, this is the point, right? A little human interaction here and there to change things up and get the creative juices flowing.
“Do you own this house?”
“No, it’s a rental.”
She gets a contemplative look on her face and studies the house for a moment. Then her muscular legs unfold as she stands. “That’s it for now. I’ll go to the store in a couple of hours and let you know when I find a new place.”
I nod, but she’s already walking away.
While I sit out back working on my second cigarette, Sara clatters around inside. When I shift to lean against the armrest to see what the hell she’s doing, I see that she’s taking over the kitchen table.
That’s fine by me. I hardly spend time in there.
She makes several trips in and out of the kitchen, bringing a laptop, cords, a second monitor, and other various computer stuff.
Just like yesterday, Sara’s wearing tight-fitting pants and a tank top. It’s early fall, and just starting to be cool out. The pants are tight enough to reveal her fit body: toned thighs, sculpted calf muscles, and a lusciously curved ass.
I know she can see me through the glass, but she ignores me, which is good because I have to adjust my dick when I stare at her for too long.
I’ve been in this secluded house for three weeks. Sex went from being available everywhere I looked to being a solo act, and my body is cranky with sexual frustration already.
When I come inside, Sara’s seated at the table, over-ear headphones on while she clicks around on her laptop. I put my mug in the sink, grab a protein shake, and retreat to my studio.
My “studio” is the theatre room that I’ve taken over with my instruments and computer, and the “work” I do today is extremely unproductive. I vacillate between watching videos online, reading poetry, and—my favorite way to waste time—doodling.
Normally I spread my procrastination around the house, but Sara’s just made a nest in the kitchen, and I don’t feel like disturbing her or being watched, so I stay in my studio. When I get hungry, I eat some of the junk food I have stashed around here.
