Dave the Downstairs Neighbor popped into my apartment on Saturday afternoon.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Nothing much. Just wanted to see what you were up to.”
“You’re out of beer, aren’t you?”
“Not necessarily,” Dave said. “I often come by just to say hi.”
“Then you won’t mind if I drink this beer in front of you without offering you one?”
Dave licked his lips. “Do you think you could maybe, like … spare one?”
“You came over here for a beer, didn’t you?” I asked.
“Yes!” Dave said, throwing his arms wide and yelling. “Yes! I came over for a beer.”
“No problem. Help yourself. There’s beer in the fridge.”
“Great — thanks,” Dave said, tromping into my kitchen and wrenching open the refrigerator. He pulled out a bottle and pried off the lid with an opener.
“You got lime?” he called.
“Bottom bin,” I said.
Dave cut himself a lime and slid it into his bottle.
“Now was that so hard?” he asked, walking back into the living room. “It’s like you want me to feel like a freeloader. Say, you got some chips?”
I handed him the bag of Tostitos that was sitting on the coffee table. “So get this.”
“What’s that?” Dave asked, sitting on the couch and resting his feet on the coffee table.
“I was working on my blog this morning, and it’s got a dashboard where you can see the number of visitors you get and stuff like that.”
“Do you get any visitors?”
“I … well, I’m more interested in the quality of reader as opposed to the quantity, you know.”
Dave crunched on some chips. “So you’re still not getting any visitors?” Keep reading…