“You know,” Zooey said, peeking her head inside the room, “If you’re going to crash at my place when you’re too drunk to come home after whatever it is you do, I’d really appreciate some kind of gratuity present…you know, like a bottle of Febreeze?” She sniffed the air with a look of distaste. Zooey wasn’t exactly the cleanest person in the world, but the small amount of domestic female that bubbled deep inside of her tried to maintain some balance of hygeine.

“Are you saying I smell?” Fritz asked with a lowered brow that suggested defensiveness.

“All I’m saying is that it smells like a hippie died in here or something. It’s a strange combination of patchouli, hemp and something moldy,” Zooey said curiously. Her hand grazed the closet door, while Fritz flinched at the thought of her discovering his stash. This horrifying thought had kept him a more frequent guest at Zooey’s over the past couple weeks. Luckily, no suspicion had aroused on her part, and his art remained untouched.