When I finally made my way downstairs, I noticed he was no longer in the garden. Karen told me he was up in his room. Working, she said.

“What does he do?”

“I don’t really know.” She shrugged. “I say ‘working’ because he doesn’t like anybody to disturb him when he’s upstairs.”

I took the hint.

There was no sign of him for several days. I wanted another look at those broad shoulders and muscular arms. It became a mild obsession.

I placed my bed opposite the door to my room and left the door open in the evenings. I lounged shirtless on the bed, reading or smoking, keeping an eye on the hallway. Sooner or later I’d see him pass by.

That was how I spent my evenings that first week in the house, waiting for a chance to meet Michael. Somehow he eluded me. I must have read Karen’s entire collection of Amazing Stories that week.

It became a game. It’s my nature to win games. Or so I thought.

Finally, on Friday night, I heard footsteps on the lower stairway. Not the slap of Karen’s or Sharon’s sandals, but a heavier tread.

I lowered the magazine just enough to peer over it, and watched as a man appeared headfirst in the hallway. It wasn’t Michael. But he easily drove Michael from my mind.

He was blond, with short hair, a square jaw, and a mustache, and was dressed in a tight sleeveless shirt that showed off muscular, golden-fleeced arms and a rippled chest. He looked more than a little like me, in fact.

I glanced at his crotch, but his chinos were too baggy to show a bulge. Instead, I found myself studying the way his nipples pressed against his shirt.

He was obviously gay, or so I thought. When his eyes met mine, I tried to lock him in with a steady gaze. I said hello. But he seemed to look straight through me, completely indifferent, and only mumbled in reply. He took the final flight up to the trapdoor. I craned my neck and saw him disappear into an arc of soft yellow light. The pants kept his crotch a mystery, but they couldn’t have flattered his ass more.

I got up from bed and tiptoed into the hall. I looked up at the closed trapdoor. It was quiet for a while, then I heard voices, louder than normal, an argument of some sort. One voice was much lower than the other.

There was a shuffle of heavy footsteps overhead. I almost bolted for my room, thinking one of them was about to leave. Then the argument resumed. A silence, and their voices returned, quieter. Another silence, then shouting. Then a quiet that went on so long I decided they had made up and gone to bed.