So. [THis is my new favourite introduction to writings].
Mr. B's on the sofa, playing some Fable 2, winning Lucien Dollas at the Westcliff Shooting Range. I'm on the loveseat, feet up on the coffee table with Alika keeping my lat warm, watching and keeping count of points for him.
It's a few minutes shy of midnight and the front door opens — not violently, but very abruptly and unexpectedly — and in walks a stranger with a couple of large backpacks over his shoulders and a very excellent toque upon his head.
Mr. B. and I look to the intruder, and he looks at us. After a strange silence he says to us, "uh... I guess my Grandma doesn't live here anymore...."
Before us we have the youngest grandchild of our landlady. He happens to have the same name is Mr. B., who offered him a beer and a seat. Now they are sitting on the couch chatting about their respective world travels.
Well, Mr. B. is talking about his time in Mexico; Intruder B is discussing his recent excursion to eastern Europe.
Who says you need to leave your home to make friends?