Later, after wolfing down his third slice, he asks, “Is there a bathroom around here?”

“Actually, no, but there’s one upstairs? You can use the one in my apartment.”

“Cool, thanks.”

I take care to lock everything away in the safe again. He grabs the pizza box and I take the whiskey. As we wind through the shop, into the hallway, and up the stairs, I try to remember the last time I brought a guy back to my apartment. Blake certainly hasn’t seen it. Before him, I had gone out with a string of guys from apps, but none of them had made it past date two or three—either I had gone back to their place (always my preference) or we had avoided the bedroom entirely. I racked my brain. Could the last guy really have been Drummer Kevin? The musician from that gig Carmen and I had gone to in East Williamsburg? His sense of rhythm had been impeccable. (His breath was not.)

With Raj trailing behind me, I see my apartment with fresh eyes. It’s a studio, so there’s nowhere to hide; everything is out in the open for judgment. The chair nearest to the door is draped with a pile of assorted sweaters and unopened mail, with a cluster of shoes scattered beneath it. The bed is unmade and rumpled. I should probably have vacuumed my rug at least one level of dust ago. It’s not that I love being a disgusting slob—it’s just that whatever energy I can devote to cleaning, I spend in the shop. A baby could lick our floors and probably crawl out healthier than ever before.

Raj, apparently, does not seem to notice what my apartment looks like. “Dope place,” he says, crossing the room to reach the open bathroom door.

And through his eyes, I see how it could be not so bad. I have a cool sheepskin rug that’s plush under your toes and a row of leafy green plants lined up on my windowsill (they’re fake, but at a distance, who can tell?). I finally got around to framing all my posters in matching black frames, including an original from the 1948 De Beers “A Diamond Is Forever” campaign, which cemented the modern tradition of symbolizing an engagement with a diamond ring. (Thank god.) My apartment is small and could use a good deep clean, but maybe it’s not as embarrassing as I think.

I move a half-read book from one end of the couch and sink onto it. When I pull out my phone, I see a missed call and then a series of texts from Blake.

“Hey! Hope you’re having a great week,” the first one reads.