Michael walks over to his desk, where a record player sits, and moves the needle over the vinyl. A sharp sound fills the air, and then a soft aria ripples through the room.

“Do you know who this is?” he asks as he makes waves in the air with his fingers, which move smoothly along with the music.

“Opera?”

“I didn’t ask what,” he says, with no obvious sharpness. “I said who.”

“A woman.”

“Now you’re trying to be difficult.” Half a beat passes. “It’s a good look on you, even if you’re wrong. It’s Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. ‘Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen.’”

“Gesundheit.”

Michael smiles and shakes his head, focusing on lighting a blunt between his fingers. It takes him four clicks of the lighter to finally catch it. He takes a deep drag, the end glowing a mix of blacks, oranges, and reds. As he exhales, tendrils of white smoke dance and twirl in the air, disappearing as they rise higher and higher.

“Not my thing,” I say. Isobel does it, but only because of her girlfriend Stacey. Stacey always says it’s not a big deal.

Yet Isobel never wants to talk about it after she’s done it.

“More for me then,” he replies happily, taking another long drag. Michael stretches, showing his abs, and moves to sit on the edge of the bed, crossing his legs at his ankles. He closes his eyes, rests his arms behind his head, and presses the blunt between his lips while he lazily breathes out smoke.

“As much as I love having a handsome man in the house with me, you know you’re going to have to tell me how you got here, right?” he says, not opening his eyes. “Because if my parents come home and see you here, we’re going to need to have our stories straight. So they don’t call the pigs.”

Did he just say what I think he said? Does he believe me? I fall silent thinking my word choice over.

“You’re not worried about them, you know, finding alcohol and weed in here? How old are you, anyway?”

“Weed.” He chuckles, opening one eye. “You sound like a white boy.”

I pause, ignoring that racially loaded statement, and instead search for the right word. “Ganja?”

“Better.” Michael winks, then closes his eyes again. “And I’m eighteen. You?”

“Seventeen. Going back to the topic at hand. You believe me?”

Michael shrugs and takes another drag. “Twice you’ve just randomly appeared. One of those times, you also randomly disappeared, and if I were a gambling man, which I am, I’d bet you’ll do it again. It’s not about belief anymore, it’s about trusting what’s in front of me. Sit.”