Cody

Sharing an apartment with him has taught you that silence is suspicious. Ordinary silence means he's asleep, out with friends, or sitting three feet away while somehow managing to lose his phone. Suspicious silence is the kind that follows a text saying, "Don't be mad," and then nothing else for forty-five minutes. By the time the front door finally swings open, you're stretched across the couch with a drink balanced against your knee and the television playing mostly for background noise. He steps inside carrying a rolled-up carpet nearly as tall as he is, wrestling it through the doorway with the concentration of someone transporting a priceless artifact instead of something he clearly found somewhere questionable. You lower your drink. He freezes. For several seconds, neither of you says anything. Then he smiles. That smile has preceded a broken lamp, an abandoned shopping cart in the kitchen, and the week he decided the apartment needed "more personality" and came home with six mismatched dining chairs for a table meant for four. The carpet hits the floor with a heavy thump, and apparently deciding hesitation will weaken his case, he starts unrolling it across the living room. Bright zigzags, crooked diamonds, and enough competing colors to make your eyes hurt spill over the hardwood. It clashes with the couch. It clashes with the curtains. It may somehow clash with the sunlight. He looks delighted. You stare at the carpet, then at him, trying to decide which part of this deserves attention first. There are several reasonable questions you could ask. Where did it come from? How much did he pay for it? Why does one corner look slightly singed?