As we enter the house, the bohemian-hippy clashing colors of the interior almost make my eyes water. The furniture is intentionally-scratched wood, colored textiles, and the odd bronze decoration. At first impact, Lana’s house appears messy, but after a closer look, I realize that it’s just filled to the brim with books, pillows, rugs, and little tables and cabinets that occupy every available corner.

Rather the opposite of my pristinely white, minimalist Trousdale Estates crib.

“Wow, lots of colors here,” I say.

“I know.” Lana shuts the door. “I can’t stand those soulless houses with all white surfaces and stainless steel appliances.” And she’s basically described my house. “I need to surround myself with furniture that has character.”

I take off the Greenpeace hat and follow her into the living room, where she points me to the pink-blue-orange-green couch. “Please sit here. Is water fine, or do you prefer something else? Iced tea? Pineapple juice?”

“Iced tea would be great, thanks.”

As I sit and wait for her to come back, I notice there’s no TV in the living room. When she said she doesn’t watch television, I assumed it meant she just didn’t turn on the TV much, not that she doesn’t even have one. Hence her having no inkling of who I am.

I haven’t been able to talk to someone who wasn’t biased by my job and fame for I can’t remember how long… fifteen years? Is this why I feel an inexplicable pull toward Lana? Is it the novelty of her seeing me like a regular person?

Two abnormally fat cats jump on the couch, interrupting my musings. The tabby kitties look like twins, both with lush, light-brown fur and big yellow eyes.

“Hello,” I say.

One cat walks over my legs to go perch on the left armrest, while his doppelganger sits on my other side. I tentatively scratch the cat to my right, my hand disappearing within the long fur. Maybe they’re not fat; they just have loads of hair.

The kitty seems to appreciate the attention because, after a while, he curls up against my thigh and goes to sleep. The other one is still seated and looking at me expectantly. I give him a scratch, too, and when he’s contented, he settles on the armrest.

“Oh, I see you’ve made friends.” Lana is back with my glass of iced tea. “Did they molest you?”

“Just demanded a scratch,” I say, then thank her as she hands me the glass and sits on a blue knitted pouf next to the couch. “You’ve had them for long?”

“Adopted them two years ago, but they’re a little older. Since they weren’t kittens, nobody wanted them, so I took them in. They’re brothers.”

“Yeah, I could tell. Do they have names?”

“Cengel and Boles,” she says.

“Wow, they sound like important names.”

Here comes the inside-joke smile again.