“I’m lying on a Star Wars bedspread,” said a dry voice behind them, “Will I ever be able to look myself in the eye again?” They all turned. “By the fact that I’m not on Rashah,” Ronan said, looking about him, “but instead apparently in suburban hell, and in contact with this dubious cultural artifact, I take it we won?”

“You have the greatest ass I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he said matterof-factly.“Thanks! I take that as a compliment, considering all the ass you’velaid eyes on. But I’m still taking a shower by myself,” she said with asmile before closing the bathroom door.”

“My eyes change color depending on my mood and what I’m wearing. If I’m wearing an acorn brown shirt, my eyes look like squirrel fur. And if I’m wearing no shirt at all, my eyes look more nude and flesh-colored. I guess my ex girlfriend, Zelda, said it best when her friend asked her what I look like and she said: “He looks like you’d imagine him to look like, if you had no imagination.”

“Then, as if getting blown up is not enough to worry about, after I take a seat on the steps, I get a look at the choir. Thirty singers and from where I’m sitting, it looks like only two of them are black. It’s not like I’m saying suburban white people shouldn’t sing. Because I love Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher.”

“So are we stalking your ex-husband?”“I’m a licensed private investigator,” I said. “I’m licensed to stalk.”“Really?”“In most cases.”“What about this case?”“In this case,” I said. “We’re stalking the hell out of him.”

“I’m thirty,” I said. “I’m five years too old to lie to myself and call it honor”