NEW JOURNAL.

micro tries to sneak in. again. it doesn't work. i know it's him by the way he opens the door. the way he wipes his feet on the welcome mat he insisted on having. something about me tracking too much mud through the place. i want to ask him where he's been. bad habit. i don't bother when he crowds the space behind me. he's warm. smells faintly like pizza. must be what he chose for dinner. part of me wants to relax. the other wants to get on with the work we have planned. crime doesn't stop just because the city sleeps. i know he'll insist we eat first.