Built on a plot his parents had bought before he was even born, Dylan's house was modest. A single-story structure with two barred windows fitted with aluminum mesh: measures taken as much to keep mischievous kids from breaking the glass as to deter potential thieves.
The main room received a dim natural light, just enough to illuminate its simple layout. On the left was a sixty-inch television, a reminder of the days when his only weekend entertainment consisted of watching action series and movies. It was flanked by three seats: two single armchairs and a sofa that had doubled as a makeshift bed more than once.
To the right sat a narrow dining table with four wooden chairs—one on each side. In the corners stood small pieces of furniture showcasing family photos and imitation paintings.
Further in, the kitchen remained reasonably clean, though some stains still clung to the tiles. It was separated from the rest of the house by low walls his father had built to serve meals over. Now, only an empty vase sat atop one of them.
On the other side of the hallway were the bedrooms: one was Dylan's, while the other had been relegated to storing old things he couldn't bring himself to throw away. Continuing to the back, the bathroom and a small rear patio completed the layout of the house. That last area, however, he had no intention of showing his guest.
Roberto turned the plastic cup between his hands as he stared at the ice water inside. The ice had started to melt, forming bubbles on the surface. He frowned, lifted his gaze to the homeowner, and grumbled, with a hint of displeasure:
"Hey, man… I'm not sure if you didn't hear me from the kitchen or what, but I could've sworn I asked for a beer. Or at least a soda."
Dylan, who was slumped in the armchair across from him, raised his glass of orange juice to his mouth and replied in a neutral tone.
"There's none of that left here."
Then he took a short sip; not enough to quench his thirst, but still pleasant to the taste.
Roberto pursed his lips and let out a faint, disapproving click.
"I get it. Not everyone spends money on that junk. But you could've at least offered me some of what you're drinking, don't you think?"
He glanced again at his own cup and snorted under his breath, muttering something unintelligible. "Bah, forget it, I didn't come here for that."
He then downed the water in one gulp, only to flinch a moment later from a sudden headache. Thus, he fell silent for a few seconds, trying to gather his thoughts. His eyes wandered across the walls, the furniture, the details of the house. Finally, he let out a low whistle.
"Gotta say, your home's not bad at all. Much tidier than I imagined. To be honest, judging by your looks, no one would think you're the kind of guy who does house chores for fun. Me? I leave all that stuff to my girl."
At that comment, Dylan showed no reaction whatsoever, replying to the compliment only with a short, unenthusiastic, "Thanks."
Though he had changed his habits and cleaned the kitchen thoroughly—going so far as to buy air fresheners to eliminate the lingering bad smell—the rest of the house was far from immaculate. One only had to look at the dusty TV stand or the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling to confirm that. But of course, Roberto wasn't aiming for honest criticism. He was just trying to score cheap points with him.
And Dylan knew it. That's why his thanks wasn't sincere.
"The color looks great too… sky blue, right? Nice choice. It's one of those tones that always works. Was it your idea or was it already like that?"
Roberto said that with feigned interest, although his eyes hadn't lingered on any single spot for more than two seconds. Meanwhile, Dylan rested his chin on his right hand, not bothering to hide his indifference toward the question.
"No, my parents gave it a final touch-up before moving out."
"Oh yeah? Damn, with how fresh the paint looks... I didn't know you still lived with them when you went to the office. I'm not going to meet them today, no?"
"No. They left about eight years ago."
Roberto let out an awkward laugh at the cold response.
"Ah… I see. Well, it doesn't look like it. You've kept it up pretty well. Must really put in the effort, huh?"
This time, Dylan didn't answer. Instead, he turned his head toward a section of the wall where the paint was starting to peel, revealing dull gray patches that contrasted with the warm blue of the past. Roberto's eyes followed his gaze, trying to appear casual, though his smile was beginning to fade.
"I mean… sure, there are parts that could use a little touch-up, but you know how it is. Living alone ain't easy, so…"
"Let me guess," Dylan cut him. "You're here because your wife kicked you out for blowing your paycheck on gambling. Am I wrong?"
Roberto choked on air and the color draining from his face.
"You're wrong…" he muttered, eyes falling to the floor.
"You know what, Roberto? I let you in out of pure curiosity. I was wondering what the hell you wanted if it wasn't money. But hearing you beat around the bush is more tedious than I expected. So let's cut to the chase: tell me the truth now or get out. I'm not wasting my time on you."
His body still ached from his morning workout, not to mention the recent fall. On top of that, he'd been avoiding caffeine to help him sleep better, so every passing minute only made him crave sleep more.
Noticing his growing annoyance, Roberto gulped hard, pressing his lips together while thinking about how to respond. After an instant of hesitation, he let out a long sigh.
"Like I said: you're wrong. She's not my wife."
'So the rest is true…'
For a brief moment, Dylan considered ending the conversation right there to avoid digging into someone else's mess. But something in Roberto's face—maybe the blush, the shame, or his poorly hidden nervousness—stopped him from dropping the matter.
'At least it's not a loan,' he thought, trying to make the situation more bearable.
"Why?"
"Why what…?"
"Why'd you come to me, of all people?" Dylan clarified, visibly irritated. "We weren't even that close at work. And with how much of a blabbermouth you are, I'm sure you've got other friends who'd welcome you with open arms."
"Blabbermouth, huh…?" Roberto repeated, visibly affected.
"Don't get sidetracked. Just get to the point."
Roberto rubbed his hands together nervously. He paused, then looked up, forcing himself to speak clearly.
"Okay… look, it's not some big story. First off, not everything I told you was a lie. I do live nearby. Maybe twenty minutes on foot."
Dylan didn't respond, but his slightly raised eyebrows made it clear he was listening, though not entirely convinced.
"That's why, when July kicked me out… Oh! Right, I hadn't told you—July is my girlfriend's name," he added, snapping his fingers as if that would somehow add legitimacy to his story. "Anyway, she told me last night if I came home without money, she was going back to her parents. Just dropped it on me out of nowhere and I didn't know how to respond… I didn't want her to leave, but I wasn't gonna beg either, so I just left. Wandered around until I ended up at a bar I usually go to the Saturdays."
Even without having been there, Dylan frowned as he pictured the scene: Roberto hunched over in some random bar, spending his last cash on drinks and self-pity. Therefore, he couldn't help but criticize.
"So you decided to blow what little you had left on booze?"
"It wasn't planned… you know how this damn thing is. You have one, then another, and another…"
"No wonder you look like death," Dylan said, squinting as he studied him up and down.
"Really? Yeah... I guess couple fights wear anyone down."
'Though that's not what I meant.'
Scratching the back of his neck, Roberto continued.
"Picking up where I left off, when the owner closed the bar and kicked me out, I was back on the streets. I walked aimlessly, not even aware of how much time passed. I didn't snap out of that trance until I was already in front of your house."
He paused, looking at Dylan's face, trying to hold eye contact; only to break it seconds later.
"You asked why I came here… Honestly, I don't know. Maybe I remembered that last party we went to together—how much fun we had. I guess I figured: why not drink with Dylan again? Better than doing it alone."
"I don't drink anymore," Dylan remarked, getting up and collecting their cups before heading toward the kitchen.
"Right, okay. Uh… thanks..." Roberto murmured, though it wasn't clear if he was thanking him for the hospitality or simply for still listening. "After spending some time outside in the early morning cold, my head cleared. I don't want to keep up this damn vice."
As he washed the cups, Dylan listened silently. The sound of water hitting the sink was the only reply.
"So… I was wondering if I could crash here tonight,'' Roberto went on, almost pleading. "Just for a few days, of course. Tomorrow I'll talk to a colleague to let me crash at his place. I was gonna do it today, but... I don't know where he lives."
With the soft clink of glass against ceramic, a tired voice came from the kitchen.
"Can't you call him?"
As if he knew what reaction would follow, Roberto merely replied:
"I… lost my phone…"
"You… you're a mess," Dylan finally blurted out, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead. It was hard for him to believe he was dealing with someone his own age.
"..."
Roberto said nothing, but his shoulders slumped slightly.
Soon after, Dylan came back to the couch and, without taking his eyes off a fixed point, debated whether to accept the request or pretend he hadn't heard it.
'Should I kick him out? This idiot's a pain, and I gain nothing from keeping him here. Even his girlfriend couldn't stand him—how am I supposed to, with everything else I've got going on? Our personalities clash, and I'll probably end up punching him… but he…'
The atmosphere was heavy, broken only by Roberto's nervously bouncing leg and the dripping of water in the sink from a worn-out faucet.
After a few minutes, Dylan responded.
"Fine. You can stay."
"Are you serious?" Roberto asked.
His voice, louder than it should've been, was full of joy and disbelief. After all, the cold treatment he'd received since the moment they reunited had made him think he'd come here for nothing.
"But only for today. And don't touch anything in the kitchen. If you want to eat something, buy it outside, and if it needs to be prepared, it has to be for both of us—because I'll be the one cooking it."
Hearing those words, Roberto let out a timid laugh.
"Sure, sure, it's the same deal I had with July…" he added, trying to lighten the mood, but stopped when he saw the deadly glare he received. "I-I mean, not that I'm comparing you to a woman or anything! Don't get me wrong."
Dylan shook his head and clenched both fists.
'Jesus, I already regret this.'
He had agreed, yes—but not out of pity. He did it as a way to settle a debt with his past self. Roberto, with all his clumsiness, had been the only person who ever made his days at the office more bearable. And even if their conversations were nonsense, they'd provided some relief from the constant pressure of rude clients.
After sinking into fragmented memories for a few seconds, Dylan stood up and headed for the door quickly.
"I'm taking a shower. Go wait outside."
"Huh? Why?" Roberto asked, rising in confusion.
Shooting him a sideways glance, Dylan snorted.
"You really think I'm gonna leave you alone in here? Don't be ridiculous. Go outside and buy a mint or something for that goddamn breath of yours."
Roberto opened his mouth to protest, but it shut immediately when Dylan shoved him out the door with no time to say more.
"When you come back, clean the back room. Or sleep on the couch—it's your choice."
And with that, Dylan shut the door with a loud thud. He leaned his forehead against the wood, let out a long sigh, and closed his eyes.
He regretted it already, but it was too late to take it back. So, shoving the remorse into a back drawer of his mind, he dragged his feet toward the bathroom in search of a towel.