Exactly where Carl was sitting last night, there sits George, not exactly looking at me, not exactly not looking at me, while I smear on deodorant, pull on a pair of navy blue briefs, a black T shirt and my blue jeans. My socks are white. I am an absolute cheapskate when it comes to buying clothes, especially socks and underwear, which always come in fat cut price plastic bags.
"I came to live here two years ago", says George, trying to adjust his glasses. "I actually started in a monastery as a postulant, but it didn't seem to quite work for me."
"Where were you?"
"Not that far away, really." I have just fastened my belt. It is no tighter than usual, but I cannot escape the reality of my somewhat protruding gut, just starting to hang over. Well, I am forty-four after all, not exactly one for working out, and I am not going to fool myself about George being mesmerized by my naked charms. In fact, he is probably quite straight. I think he was taken quite by ambush. And also there is the power of the naked.
"The Benedictines down the mountain."
"Yes, the one and very same", he says. "Let's just say that Carl and Melissa have inhereited some of us from them."
"Is there a story there?"
Suddenly, George´s head falls backward as he lets out a loud and unrestrained guffaw. "You sound just like Carl! Cripes! Another journalist. Just what we need here", and he continues laughing...
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