This isn't weird.

A Matter of Perspective

 The room was bland, but still far nicer than anything he ever would have booked for himself. The color scheme was decidedly beige, right down to the sepia photographs of birds that decorated the walls. But despite the unassuming shades of tan that made up the bedding, the thread count on the sheets was higher than he even knew was possible, and the mattress made his bed back home seem like a slab of granite in comparison. And the shower—the shower was fucking ridiculous. A magical chrome plate suspended straight overhead, as wide across as his forearm, that could simulate torrential rain with the turn of a knob.

All in all, not a bad place to live for a couple weeks.

By the second day, he had started getting up early enough to spend a solid forty minutes just standing in that glorious pseudo-storm before he had to go catch the shuttle to the treatment center.

This was day six, Saturday. There would be no therapies today or tomorrow, and he was at a loss for how to spend his time, so he used the morning to test just how long he could stay in that otherworldly shower before it finally ran out of hot water. For science.

It felt so much like the downpour he had stood in with Millie, over a year ago, stoned and half naked and drunk on unspoken love. When he closed his eyes, he could see her vividly, back turned toward him, hands outstretched to catch the rain. He could see the curve of her waist, and the way her wet hair clung to her neck in dark tendrils. A mermaid lost in the forest.

Thinking about her usually made him heartsick, but he had somehow managed to distill that one memory, disassociate it from all the angst that followed. It was safe and warm. When he was there, he could forget how wrong it had all gone. He could get lost in the feeling of connectedness they had shared that day, in the softness of her tiny hand in his, in counting and recounting the freckles smattered across the bridge of her nose—twenty-six, and three more on the helix of her left ear. That was his happy place. He could sink into the memory, hide in it, and feel close to her again for a little while.

And maybe sometimes jack off, but—it was more about the connectedness thing.

By the ninety minute mark, at which point the water was still just as steamy as when he'd first stepped in, it became apparent that the hot water supply at this hotel was not to be bested by the likes of him, and he finally threw in the towel—well, threw on the towel. He had just finished drying when he heard his phone buzz. Probably Indigo, he figured—there weren't many people texting him these days. He'd long since stopped feeling that moment of panicky hope that it could be Millie every time he got a notification, so he didn't rush to check it. Only after he'd fully dressed and combed his hair did he bother to pick up his phone. The text was from an unknown number: LOOK OUT THE WINDOW, BEN.

Oh. Well, that was creepy.

Who is this? he wrote back.

The reply was immediate. I SAID LOOK OUT THE GODDAM WINDOW BRO

Reluctantly, Ben pulled aside the curtain to look down at the world below. Directly across the street was a quaint neighborhood cafe, where somebody sitting alone at a patio table was waving up at him. He had to squint to figure out who it was.

With a sigh, he texted back. God damn it, Dustin. Did you seriously spoof a number just to fuck with me?

Another buzz. Damn right. Get your ass down here and get some breakfast with me, nerd.

When Ben arrived, Dustin was relaxing back in his chair, reading a battered paperback copy of Why Zebras Don't Get Ulcers. He pretended not to notice Ben as he approached, and kept his eyes glued stubbornly to his book until Ben finally smacked it out of his hands.