Tomorrow's Visitor

Tomorrow didn't get many visitors.

His house perched on the top of a massive cliff, overlooking a valley pulled straight out of a Tolkien novel. The only way up was a winding road that was occasionally mistaken for a hiking trail.

So when Tomorrow's doorbell rang at quarter past one, he assumed it was hiker.

Apparently living in a house miles away from civilization just screamed "I love company."

"What?" Tomorrow demanded, jerking the door open.

It wasn't a hiker. Hikers usually wore clothes.

"You're bloody rude. Do you always answer the door like that?"

"Yes. What do you what?"

"At the moment? Pants."

"There's a mall about fifty miles that way," Tomorrow said. "Good-bye."

He started to shut the door, but the man grabbed the edge.

"I will break your fingers," said Tomorrow.

The man shoved him back, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him.

"What are you doing? Get out!"

"Not without pants."

Tomorrow grabbed the bat he kept by the door.

He really didn't like visitors.

The man smirked at him.

Tomorrow swung. The man caught the bat, pulled it out of Tomorrow's hands and tapped him on head.

"No," he said. "Bad little man. No hit defenseless naked people."

"I am not little," Tomorrow said. "You're just freakishly tall."

"More insults," said the man. "You're not a nice person."

"Get. Out. Of. My. House."

"In a minute," the man said. "Where's your bedroom?"

"No, wait, stop!" Tomorrow scrabbled after the man as he strode down the hallway. "That's not-"

He ran into the man's back, grasping the man's hips to steady himself.

"What are these?" the man asked.

"Paintings, you cretin," Tomorrow said.

The man pulled away, circling the room, pausing to examine each one. They were scattered around haphazardly, leaning against the walls, frameless.

"These are brilliant," the man said. He glanced at Tomorrow. "You're Tomorrow Waits."

Tomorrow scowled at him.

"I always thought you were a woman," said the man. "Your brushstrokes are so delicate, refined. There's a suspended quality to your work, like catching a jumper right before he leaps off a building."

"Christ," said Tomorrow. "You're an art critic. Because this couldn't get any worse."

The man smiled.

"Nope, just a fan. I have one of yours," he said. "Water number thirteen. You're crap at titles, by the way."

"If you can afford one of my paintings, you should be able to buy pants."

"I never said I bought it," the man said. "It was a payment."

"For what?"

The man spun around.

"Let's try upstairs," he said.

"Goddammit!"

Tomorrow followed the man up the stairs, muttering under his breath.