Eric unlocks the door and I walk into a slackeresque living room, spare musical equipment stacked against all corners, black-and-white poster of David Bowie from The Hunger above the non-working fireplace.

"Thanks for letting me crash here," I say, wearily throwing my coat on the couch.

"No problem," he says. "You wanna beer?"

"Sure." He comes back in a moment with two Grolsch's and a little pipe. Eric puts Pavement on the stereo and we sit for a while drinking, talking, taking turns hitting from the pot.

Once I'm pretty stoned I decide to finally get it out of the way. "Eric," I say.

"Yeah."

"Are you sleeping with Barb?" I stare him in the eyes.

He puts the lighter to the pipe, not even noticing my staring. He inhales, holds the smoke, exhales, finally says, "I've already got way too many problems with women these days without sleeping with Barb."

"Hmm," I say.

"Why, is Barb sleeping around?"

I pause. "I don't know."

He nods. "Is that why you're not at home tonight?" I nod, and he lifts his bottle in the air in a toast to me, takes a drink.

We sit around for a little bit more, and Eric says, "You ready to go to bed?"

"Oh." I look around. "Yeah, yeah. I'll just... you got a blanket?"

"Oh," he says. He looks back down the hallway. "I thought you were staying in my room."

I give a double-take. "Your room," I say.

"Yeah. That is why you asked to come over, right? I thought you would've stayed with one of your closer friends otherwise."

Why did I ask Eric to stay over here? My mind is a swirling eddy of liquor and pot and anger and confusion. "Um..." I cover my eyes. "Um, yeah, sure," I say. "Sure, whatever." I get up and walk to the bedroom with him.