He had surprised himself by asking Kelsey out again two weeks later. He hadn't intended to, but she had skipped a class and he was surprised that he'd missed her.
"Look," she had said, "I liked seeing that movie with you, but here's the deal. I'm not interested in dating. Besides, you're not my type."
"So, what is your type?" he had asked. She'd answered with a glare.
After their second movie they sat in his truck outside her apartment and debated for almost half an hour. It was close to midnight. She had thrown him a curve when she invited him up for a beer.
It was a sparse studio. Light carpet, white tiled kitchen, sliders that opened onto a small balcony. There was a daybed opposite the entrance, two open suitcases on the floor next to it, and a handful of packing boxes, one of which served as an end table. The walls were bare. He couldn't tell if she were moving in or out.
A counter separated the kitchen from the living area. Two stools slid under the edge. He sat on one. She opened the fridge and pulled out a pair of Coronas. She grabbed an opener and popped off the tops.
"Glass?" she asked handing him a bottle.
He answered by clinking it against hers. "Salud."
She smiled and took a swallow then crossed the living room to close the drapes. "Nosey neighbors," she said.
She returned to the kitchen, putting the counter between them. Funny, he remembered, how uncomfortable she seemed in her own space. She slid an ashtray in front of her and lit a cigarette.
"Nice place," he said.
She shrugged.
"How long you been here?"
She picked up her cigarette from the edge of the ashtray. "Eight or nine months."
"Oh," he said. "You always lived alone?"
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