Mike is a person who values his space intensely -- a person who makes a habit of ignoring things like the advertisement he sees on his dash in the afternoon, sweating and covered in wood chippings.
This one makes his stomach drop. He checks the blog attached and feels his gut drop further, right through the floor, straight to the core of the earth.
So like him, Mike thinks. So like who?
He can picture greeting the man, taking his hand and feeling his world shatter. Feeling that he never got to say goodbye, so at least he can say hello again.
He can picture living with him, deep, rich cello notes beneath the earthy thump of cutting into thick wood, smoking at night, sharing stories.
So much like old times, Mike thinks again. What old times?
He imagines a life with this man that he can swear he's had before. Tremendous hands cover his face as he hunches before his battered laptop, sweating, scared. He wants so badly for Erwin Smith to be in his life, but to face Erwin Smith would be to face...something else entirely.
Mike gets up, retrieves his adze with trembling hands. He strikes at the raw log of maple in the center of his room -- not carving, but slicing, as he'd been taught, a motion so natural to him. He slashes like a man possessed, paces, presses his nose to the warm glass of the window.
Erwin Smith. An old friend. Say goodbye to him. Say hello. Say you miss him. Say you value him. Why say any of this?
He returns to the computer. He sends a message.
I'm in no condition to take roommates. But you're welcome to stay any time should you need to. My name is Mike Zacharius: I feel like I may know you.
I'm interested in meeting you.
Clumsy, weird. He hits send before he thinks about it.
