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second story is high enough for guaranteed lethality.” Dimitri looked calm, but with his well-trimmed beard and thick-framed glasses he always looked so damned professorial he'd have to spit up blood to ruin the effect.
    “Do you see what he's done?” A pair of khakis lay crumpled on the floor and a few socks were balled up by the door. “And this is only the beginning.”
    “It's not that bad. Here, let me take care of it,” I said. I kicked the socks and khakis across the floor and under the couch.
    “I was talking about the kitchen.”
    In the eyes of Dimitri, James's crime against humanity consisted of his existence. He embodied the vulgar greed—unique to Americans—that had turned the world to shit. Half of Bangladesh underwater and the burning question in a financier's mind was the size of this year's bonus.
    “So where is he?” I asked.
    “I dunno... I stayed in my room 'til he left.”
    The kitchen was a war zone. Onion skins unraveled like barbed wire, the exposed guts of an entire company of peppers littered the counter, and eggshells were scattered like land mines. A pan caked with fried eggs and a dirty plate with vegetables charred beyond recognition huddled at the table like refugees. He'd made an effort at cleaning: I found his fork in the sink.
    “Looks like he made an omelette,” I said, beginning to clean it up.
    “You can't be serious. Are you his mother?”
    “It's no big deal.” Dimitri refused to help. “So, did you two talk?” I asked.
    “No.” He leaned against the counter and watched me scrub the pan.
    “Not even a hello?”
    “Look, it's your house, so whatever. But don't expect me to be Mr. Vivacious.”
    I'd been mistaken. Dimitri's problems with James were numerous and specific. First, he was a selfish prick. Second, he was a slob. Third, Dimitri hated him. Additionally, James was stupid, argued about everything, and mongered conspiracies like a Baptist preacher spreading the word of God. Dimitri recounted the numerous times James had gotten us kicked out of bars, tried to sleep with someone's girlfriend, and how he never paid for anything if he could help it. I nodded along as he ranted. “Yeah,” ... “I remember that,” ... “that was his fault, wasn't it?” By the time he finished the kitchen was back to normal. I'd even washed the countertops.
    Everything Dimitri had said was true. Nor could I argue that James had changed since college; the evidence thus far suggested he hadn't. It made no difference, however, as I'd told him he could stay here.
    “I agree with everything you've said. But it doesn't matter. He's my... friend, and I can't turn him out on the street. It's not like he has anywhere else to go.”
    “Yeah right. You realize he's lying to you?”
    “About what?”
    “Oh, probably everything. Who knows? Just because he flattered you into thinking you're his savior doesn't mean you actually are.”
    I hadn't thought of that—was I no more than the next sucker on his list? But any list of long-term acquaintances with whom James was still on speaking terms had to be pretty short. Like one name short. “How many people do you think James knows who wouldn't slam the door in his face?” This was our first roommate argument in over a year—the last being when I'd briefly dated the ex of a mutual friend.
    Dimitri glared at me. “This is a bad idea, and you're going to regret it.”
    “Maybe.”
    “How long is he staying?”
    “I dunno. Guess we'll see.” I opened the fridge. “Beer?”
    “Sure,” he said, fishing a bottle opener attached to his keys from his pocket. He opened the first beer and offered it to me. A gesture of acceptance, if not approval. “Fine. I won't kill him. But you'd better tell him not to touch my fucking food.”
    “Fair enough.”
    We sat at the table and talked. His grant was up for renewal, but the foundation that had awarded it was being audited by the government. If they were shut down, he wasn't sure how he'd