“Yes, Eliot. I’m aware that you are not pro-wrestler-turned-actor Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson. You forget that I’ve met you.”

“I know. I know. But I just want to make sure that secretly, in your heart, you’re not hoping I’m some sort of he-man.”

“Not a he-man. Got it.”

“Let’s see . . . what else? Oh! I’m ridiculously annoying about recycling. And composting. Like, it irritates everyone. If I ever came over to your house, there’s a good chance I’d sort your trash while you were in the bathroom.”

“I recycle as well, so that wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Okay. I can drive a stick. Which is cool. But I can’t change a tire. Which is not cool. I’ve tried. And failed.”

“You should really learn! That’s just negligent if you regularly drive a car.”

“See? I’m sure you know how to change a tire. You can probably put together Ikea furniture without the instructions, can’t you?”

“No one can do that. Eliot, what’s going on right now? What’s with this list you’re giving me?”

“I’m making sure you know everything before I explain one more thing to you.”

“You’re making sure I know everything . . .?”

“Yeah. Okay. I thought of another one. And this one’s a doozy. I do this one thing that would be really, really creepy if anyone ever found out about it in the wrong context.”

“What is it? It’s something gross, isn’t it. I knew you were a closet perv.”

“No! What? What do you mean you knew I was a closet perv?”

“It’s always the nice ones.”

“I’m . . . not even going to validate that with a response.”

“Tell me what it is!”

“No way. You called me a perv so now I’m not going to tell you.”

“Tell me or I take away fifty points.”

“Fifty?! God, you don’t play fair. Fine. I’ll tell you . . . I draw people I know.”

“Drawing people? That’s the thing you think would be creepy if people found out? God, you really are a pure soul, Eliot. You need to get out more. Or stay in more. Have you ever even been on the internet before? There’s a lot for you to learn.”

“Let me explain how it could be considered weird.”

“Okay.”

“I draw people I know from memory.”

“I’m failing to see how this is creepy. Are you saying you do it like over and over again and tack their faces up on your wall like a serial killer?”

“No. But I draw them doing . . . stuff.”

“Sex stuff? You really are a perv, you perv!”

“No! Oh, my God. You’re the perv, since yours is the mind that went there.”

“Well, why did you pause so long before saying ‘stuff’? What was I supposed to think?”