“TREVOR,” LIL CALLED as she opened his door with her duplicate key. Her ears only took in silence; her eyes, the junk scattered from here to eternity. A pair of dirty socks hung from a lampshade. A set of dumbbells sat on the kitchen table and were half-hidden beneath the Sunday funnies. Yesterday’s breakfast—swollen, mushed-out cereal in a wooden serving bowl—sat on the floor near the television. Yes, Trevor was certainly a slob.
Going into his kitchen-living room combination, she rinsed out his coffee pot and put a fresh batch on to drip then washed two coffee cups since none were left clean, and placed them on the counter. While she was at it, she stuck a load of dishes in the dishwasher.
“This man needs a maid,” she said with a disgusted gasp as she opened the refrigerator and got a
