The Sandman across the surgically neat living room. Then he gasped in horror at his foolish, foolish act and hurried across the spotless blue carpet and retrieved the graphic novel. Ennui was no excuse, ever, to abuse anything by Neil Gaiman. Ever.
He blew on the cover but it was relievedly flawless.
Ever!
His (un)dead roommate, who would have heard a carpeted version of The Sandman hit carpet in the deep (carpeted) vacuum of space, yelled from the back bedroom, “Rule six, Eddie!”
“Edward,” he muttered back.
“Rule six, Edward!”
Vampire hearing. Argh.
(Rule six: no hurling graphic novels before five thirty P.M.)
“I need to get out of here.”
“Where would you go?”
“I’m talking to myself out here, if you don’t mind.”
“Rule eleven!”
(Rule eleven: before five thirty P.M., talk to yourself in your head.)
“Rule twenty!”
(Rule twenty: back off Edward if you’ve brought up two or more rules before supper.)
Edward waited, but Greg (“Gregory, dammit!”) Schorr was finished.
It wasn’t Greg(ory), anyway. It was him. It was Edward Batley IV, heir to a long and distinguished line of accountants. He had to get out of there. Being a third wheel for a few months was almost fun. Fodder for late-night routines (which Greg loved, being the only vampire comedian on the planet, probably), right? Something to blog about, yes? He should have pitched the idea to Hollywood; all things paranormal were being turned into terrible movies and terrific sitcoms. He could move out to California, pitch screenplays. There were worse ways to make a living. Guard at Buckingham Palace. Brazilian mosquito researcher. Portable toilet cleaner. Roadkill remover.
That would all have been fine, except for the tiny detail that it hadn’t been months. He had been a third wheel going on four years. No, that wasn’t . . .
He whipped out his cell, stabbed the calendar button, and gaped with horror at the date. It hadn’t been going on four years. It had been four years and seventeen days. Boo would never allow a party, never mind a simple, “Hey, thanks again for saving me from being devoured and turned into a shambling Night Thing,” but he always made a mental note of the day they’d met.
Four years and seventeen days? That was nothing to blog about. It wasn’t almost fun anymore; it wasn’t something to pitch to public access, never mind FX. It wasn’t an undead Three’s Company. It wasn’t even Wings, or Coach. It was more like an I Love Lucy, if Lucy was a vampire slayer and Ricky was a vampire, and Fred had divorced Ethel because of her vain, snoopy competitiveness but lived with Lucy and Ricky anyway. In Boston. And was an accountant for Grate and Tate.
I have to stop seeing my life as a series of old sitcoms. And I have to get out of here.
And go where?
That was it. His enemy wasn’t just ennui; it was the sweet, sweet comfort of knowing where the strawberry Smucker’s was, and when Boo and Gregory were out at a comedy club so he could enjoy, um, alone time, and when they were getting drunk enough so he could hear their slayer/vampire sexual shenanigans from half a block away. (The first time he’d realized what he was hearing, he simultaneously popped a boner and threw up. Boo was hot; Gregory was hot if you were into sculpted urbane intelligent vampires; and they were both terrifying.)
He liked most everything else about his roommates; they were always a good time on a Friday night, and sometimes they let him come hunting with them. He liked knowing he was paying next to nothing for his share of a gorgeous Quincy apartment (Jack had moved in with Chrissy and Janet for a reason, right?), and where the best black-and-white cookies were, and when the Tuesday staff meetings were safe to skip (which was every third Tuesday). And yeah, like he’d said, he liked his roommates, too. It would be weird, being in the Boston area and not living with them.
Also, they’d miss him dreadfully.
“Pathetic,” he announced.
“Seriously, will you stop? Rule eleven!”
He ignored Greg(ory) and pointlessly began tidying the spotless apartment. Boo had always been one to let a bra fall where it may, but he and Greg were sticklers. Edward suspected it was his mind, which tended to stray toward all things tidy (you could perform an appendectomy in his cubicle). And Greg was old-fashioned. Really old-fashioned. “Cleanliness is next to you-know-what,” he’d informed them the first week he had moved in. When Boo had realized he was serious, she laughed like