We're in her living room watching TV when she says, "I'm serious. You should move in with me. I'm rarely home, and Max needs someone to keep him company."

I picked up my phone and decided to record our conversation. Claude never believes me when I say she has the most random ideas when she's drunk. This time, I was going to prove it to her.

We've been over this "moving in" idea before. She offers it when she's drunk because she either secretly hates living alone or her drunk self just enjoys making up stories. I guess it's one of those situations where a person changes into someone else when they start drinking.

I decide to entertain her this time. "Yeah, the two of us in your house sometimes. And the other times? I'll give your neighbors a heart attack."

"Not if you wear actual clothes," she replies.

I roll my eyes. I wear actual clothes, I just prefer to strip myself of my scrubs in my car after work so I don't look like I just came home from a doctor's office. Seriously, you wear scrubs out once, and people think you can save the world.

(My job isn't that fancy, in case you're wondering.)

The clothes I strip into are shorts and a top. I'm not fashionable, so I'm not sure what kind of top. It's not my fault she decided to move into a neighborhood with middle-aged couples whose in-laws live with them, anyway.

"At least move in and house sit my place for a month?"

A month? "Why?"

"Because work is taking me to New York for a week, and then I'm off to Paris."

She's glowing. I want to barf.

What's the point of having a house if you barely live in it? I guess if you can afford one, you're supposed to buy one...but then doesn't it just go to waste?

"Fine," I reply.

I'm a little drunk, too. If I was dared, I would let a dog lick my mouth. And I'm not a dog person.

Two weeks later, I was fully moved in to the guest house. I couldn't yet move into her house due to a remodel of what would be my room. Something about something an ex-boyfriend had done that she was finally ready to fix. I'm not really sure. I didn't look, because Max caught my eye as I climbed the staircase, and when an orange feline looks at you with eyes that say, "Love me," you can't resist. He's like a big, fluffy Cheeto.

That reminds me—I need some Cheetos.