He balls his T-shirt up and shoots it into the hamper in a corner on his side of the room without taking aim. It drops in with a soft swish. He looks at me expectantly, lips bowed up in a smirk. I can’t tell if he’s expecting praise for his dunking skills or for his abs, but either way, he’s clenching so hard I’m surprised he hasn’t burst a blood vessel. I ignore him completely. Not my monkey, not my circus, and all that.
