Pete, my neigbor

Did I tell you about Pete?  That guy who gave me a ride from Michigan to New York?

Turns out, he's my neighbor.

I was on my way to a wine store to pick up a bottle for a dinner, walking down streets that I hadn't explored.  Not ten minutes after I left my home, I hear my name called.  I turned around, and hallelujah.  It was Pete, barefoot in front of his open apartment door, shouting and waving and smiling at me.  He was practicing guitar in his living room and saw me walking.  He invited me inside.

Pete looked scruffy compared to the clean-shaven driving face he once had.  He told me why he had a beard while he gave me a quick tour of his abode.  He was avoiding fluorine, hadn't showered in forty-seven days or something, only drank filtered water.  He said that he feels great because of it.  He believed that he was forming more articulate sentences and making better music.  That's so good.  He didn't smell all that great, but you're running the risk. 

Peter.  I'm happy to have a neighbor.  I didn't stay long because I had to get to that dinner.  Stop by anytime, he said.  We said goodbye, and before I opened the door Pete was strumming his guitar.  I turned to close the door, and I saw him strumming, smiling and looking at me like he really had something going with those strings and only he and I knew it.  I left him strumming and swaying and bouncing, getting stinky with that guitar.