writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia

"Oh you have to have heard about how haunted our little town is," Oscar replied, a grin back on his face. "It's the main thing that brings in the tourists. All year long people trickle in to see the town that was to source of the documentary Perfect Harmony. Ever heard of it?"

Kunal shook his head. He wasn't exactly a skeptic, but he didn't actively believe in the paranormal either. "So how is this place haunted?"

Oscar stopped at an intersection. "That, Kunal, is a long story I'll have to tell you about later. I'm heading off this way, unless you'd like company a little way further?"

Oscar was giving him an out. Kunal could take it, or he could find some courage and let Oscar walk him back home. After a brief hesitation, he took the coward's route, but amended, "Yeah you can tell me later. But if there are spirits hanging around, I need to know so I can blame them if I bowl a rotten game."

Oscar blinked and then grinned. "Why, Kunal Sadaram, was that a joke? I knew you couldn't be so serious all the time. I'm really looking forward to Friday even more now. Good night." Before Kunal could react, Oscar turned and headed down the street toward his house, leaving Kunal to wonder why that comment had made this sound like a date.

Kunal Sadaram untied his apron, smoothing it as he hung it up behind the door of the kitchens. The wall next to the door had neat rows, a hook and cubby system. It had been devised by Divya, the elder of his two younger sisters, to keep everyone's belongings neat, tidy, and perfectly in line. It was a reflection of her life. As Kunal looked at his sparse cubby, he briefly thought it was also a reflection of his own: organized, but empty.