In Through the Out Door

Josh left. He just grumped at me when I asked him if he'd washed the sheets, jokingly, not expecting him to have, as he whirled around trying to get every thing done, before the taxi arrived at 6pm. “Give me some fucken credit,” he said. “Washed, folded and dried.”
He left forty dollars on the kitchen bench for the bills. "Since you keep going on about it, he said."
I asked once... just to needle him, sure, but only once. That's what it's got to. He's so stingy with his money, any mention of it sends him into a spin. I worked them out this morning, they came to about ninety dollars each. He never paid the last of his rent. I didn't ask about that and strangely, he didn't mention it.
We just stood in the kitchen in the remaining minutes before the taxi arrived and had very little to say to one another. How long had he been here? Five months.
He arrived a friend, botted off me non-stop and left a... judgement reserved. See ya, buddy. One day?
I had my hair cut, finally. Yey! Well, it was either that or curlers. Ha, ha. I like it long, but it's too hard to manage. It was about three weeks over due. I had to go back to my old hairdresser, as my new hairdresser, by default – he-who-can't-be-mentioned left the salon and went back to teaching – is moving, from Fitzroy, because a needle exchange is opening up directly across the street. They can't have that, oh no, no, no. It's no surprise to me the owner lives in Templestowe.
I introduced myself as Christian Fletcher speaking to the old hairdresser who, halfway through the appointment booking said, "Is this Chris from xxxx?"
"Yes, Tony, it is."
"What's with the serious voice? I didn't recognise you."
"I'm at work," I said. "I guess that must be my work voice."
"I know Chris from xxxx, not Mr Fletcher," he laughed. "Don't use the other voice again, it's intimidating." We both laughed. I didn't realise I had a work voice.
He has a new apprentice who is amazingly handsome. He's a grunge boy with tats up his arm. Black hair, dark features, gorgeous smile. He wears his jeans under his arse, exposing his pert, round butt. The cops told him to pull his pants up, late last Friday on the street. When he and his mate – I didn't get a gay vibe or a straight vibe from him – mumbled fuck off under their breath the coppers arrested him for drunk and disorderly and locked him up for a few hours. My, my, it is conservative times that we live in, to be sure.
The apprentice lifted the back of his black t-shirt, cheekily. "See, it's not so bad."
"No, not bad at all," I said. Very nice, I thought.

Shane came over and got the key. He moves in today. Next! He looks shell-shocked, but, then again, he and Mark W have been together for five years, so it’s pretty much to be expected.
“I’m just going to bring my clothes over,” said Shane. “I just have to get out of there. I have to get away from Mark. I just need to get out.” He looked exhausted.
Shane's an aggressive bottom, so I guess we'll have a procession of big blokes through here, in the next little while, giving him comfort.

Me, David and Shane, being house buddies, it’ll be fun.