The door to Richard’s apartment opened, and swung outward. Initially, the building manager had utterly dismissed Richard’s concerns about fire safety, preferring instead to emphasize how liable he was for any fire damage. Richard pointed out it’d be difficult to sue him if he burned to death. The landlord smugly insisted he could squeeze blood out of a turnip, not to mention sue the dead. But a few days later, the landlord’s handyman showed up to reverse the door.

He looked inside at his little slice of heaven, his man cave, his respite from all the troubles of the outside world. The front door flowed into a small living room; a sliding glass door led to a narrow private balcony. A solar-plexus-height counter formed the boundary of the kitchen, with an oven, microwave, and full-size refrigerator. To the left ran a hallway to the bathroom and, just beyond, his bedroom. He smiled and sighed happily. This was so much better than a studio apartment. Still, he really could have used a dishwasher. The stacks of dirty dishes, filling both small sinks, stood as silent sentinels to his need.

From the freezer, he grabbed a bottle of Jägermeister; from the fridge, he scooped up a can of Rolling Rock. Out of the cupboard, he took a small hand-me-down glass from his parents, the kind that one would find in a college dorm, if the community college he attended even had dorms. He poured himself a double shot and shuffled off to his easy chair. Richard cracked the can open, swallowed the shot in one gulp, and washed it down with beer. Jägermeister was like the opposite of vodka; it had so many ingredients, they were bound to start a fight with each other, sending bodies and furniture crashing against the walls of his belly. Combined with the beer, it didn’t get him drunk as much as it made him sick, but it felt about the same, and cost a lot less than getting properly drunk. He sat back and smiled as he felt the nausea flow over him. Doing this on an empty stomach made it happen even faster; he grinned as he thought of his brilliant act of thrift.

Idly, he flipped on the TV and clicked through the channels. The stuff available for free with an antenna ran the gamut from local stations, to public TV, to strange off-brand comedy and news channels, plus the expected assortment of home shopping networks, foreign language offerings, and incredibly old movies, many in black and white. But somehow, there was always at least one channel showing an old rerun of Cops. Sometimes, he could find a knock-off exclusively featuring lady cops, but not tonight. He settled for an old classic, set in the Deep South, and cracked open a few more beers.

Before long, he began feeling sentimental, and as the televised police action lost its charm, he reached toward the small shelf in his end table and grabbed a totem of his other favorite hobby — reading romance novels. Within a few sentences, he recalled where he was in the story, and picked up the trail. He smiled as the syrupy schmaltz flowed from the page and straight into his warm, gooey innards. Richard was well aware that these novels were entirely unrealistic, but that’s what he liked about them. For a short while, they let him believe that there really was a better world possible, one where people got along, good triumphed over evil, and the brave, hard-working guy got the girl. Nerdier guys experienced the same utopian rush from watching Star Trek, always pining for the female guest star of the week.

As the chapters and empty beer cans raced by, he realized he was feeling much more sentimental than usual. He kept looking at his phone, telling himself not to do it. He also knew he wouldn’t be able to resist forever. And given that, he concluded, he may as well do it now. He switched off the TV, scrolled to the all-too-familiar number, and dialed it.

It had almost gone to voice-mail when he heard a click from the other side. A pregnant pause followed. “Is anyone there?” Richard finally asked.

The voice on the other side dripped with acid. “Richard? Really? Don’t you ever get tired of this?”

“It’s so good to hear your voice again, Jan,” he blubbered. “Got some time to spare?”

“No!” she shot back. “I’m with someone else! Like, literally with them right now! He’ll be back any second!”

“But I miss you so much!” he pined. “I never got over our breakup.”

“I’m not even your most recent ex-girlfriend!” she retorted angrily. “Why don’t you drunk-dial her instead?!”

“Because you were different,” he confessed. “I’ve never been able to get you out of my mind. Even when I was with those other women, I still saw you…and only wanted you.”

Jan paused. “I’m not sure if that’s sweet, creepy, or really, really sad.”

“Why can’t it be all three?” he quipped.

“And there’s my answer,” she groaned. “It’s just the alcohol talking, isn’t it? I don’t even know why I took this call.”

“It’s not the alcohol; it’s really me!” he protested. “It’s just that I can’t bring myself to say this without the booze.”

“So what if you can finally say it?” she thundered. “It doesn’t make any difference! You never had any time for me, working all those long hours, and you don’t have time for me now!”

“It’ll be different after this case!” he promised. “It’s a big one! The sort of case that’ll finally make me a household name!”

“You’re a dreamer, Richard,” she dismissed. “There’s no such thing. What is it, a lost pet? No, let me guess…you’re looking for a pie thief.”

“Hardly,” he announced triumphantly. “It’s a murder case!”

She paused before continuing. “I suppose if I cared at all about private detective stuff, I’d be impressed or something.”

“You should be!” he declared. “Once I solve it, customers will beat a path to my door! You can’t buy this kind of publicity!”

She snorted derisively. “I’d sure like to see that.”

“You would?” he pounced. “So as soon as I get paid, I can take you out?”

“Damn it, Richard, that wasn’t an opening!” she protested.

He suddenly sounded very sober. “You just said that you’d sure like to see that.”

Jan let out another anguished groan. “You never change, do you? Am I your girlfriend or your perp?”

“Ha!” he shrilled. “You just referred to yourself as my girlfriend!”

Richard could only hear a low growl, followed by silence. “You’re always a detective, aren’t you? You’re never off duty…not even now.”

“I am who I pretend to be,” Richard declared. “Not everyone can claim that. Remember how you said that you loved my honesty and decency?”

“I—” she began. Over the phone, he could hear a door open, then close. She exhaled sharply. “I have to go.”

“Who was that, honey?” he heard a male voice say.

Her answer pierced him like a discarded shish kebab stick. “Nobody.” He heard the phone click.

Richard put his phone down and hung his head. No doubt about it, this might have been a setback.

It was time for bed anyway. Slowly, he rose and managed to stagger down the hallway to his room. At the door, he stopped abruptly. Clean laundry formed large piles on his bed; he had neglected once again to fold it. He stared at it blankly for a few moments, sighed heavily, and turned around to lumber back to his easy chair.