"Holy shit," he said to her. "There's someone on that porch!"
"I know," I said. "And you just tried to pee in front of me."
He turned the other direction, this time looking over his shoulder to talk to me, an arc bursting from hip-level.
"Come on over," he said.
"I can see your pee," I said.
I had six minutes to kill, so I wondered up the sidewalk in socks and a robe. He met me halfway and the girl stayed on the porch.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Christa. I live there," I said.
"With my boyfriend," I said.
"I've never seen you before."
"We've lived here a year."
"I guess I haven't been here for awhile."
"I've been in jail," he said.
"For ...?" I asked.
"Selling weed," he said.
"How come everyone laughs when I tell them that?" he asked.
"Because you were in jail for selling weed," the girl said from the porch.
I walked toward the girl and listened to these two skip from topic to topic for about four more minutes. Which ones of his friends she has hooked up with, six months in jail. He took a second to text someone. She told me she liked my robe.
"We're like brother and sister," she told me.
"Sounds like you'll probably hook up tonight," I said.
Then they got into more banter.
"Don't forget to drop by my bar for a Bloody Mary on Sunday," she said as I backed away quietly.
"You should come in and have a drink!" he said.
"Can't," I told him. "I'm working on a project."
"What?" he asked.
"I'm writing," I told him.
"What? Like poetry?" he asked.
"Psh. No. Gross," I said.
"What do you write if it isn't poetry?" he asked.
I had no idea how to answer that.