"[color=#8d97bf]'Organized chaos.'[/color]" Jewel shrugged. "[color=#8d97bf]Leave it on the counter. Thanks![/color]"

But Ona was right. If she could measure how much he cared about these facets of his life by how clean he kept their spaces in his apartment, then he seemed to care about his electronics and his home bar, and little else; though even these had thin filmy layers of dust painted over them by time and neglect. Most his furniture had been relegated as storage units, as there were enough coats draped across their backs, and enough pairs of shoes at their legs, to bar access from all but the most determined guests. Although trash was quarantined within bins and bags, these containers overflowed, as consistently he "forgot" to drag them down to the dumpsters on his way to work. The lavatory was clean [i]enough[/i], but an occasional stray hair on the floor or hard water stain on the shower walls would drive the neat-freak's meticulous senses crazy. Of course, to Ona any room with a wrinkle or two, a birthmark, a blackhead or blemish, was just one hair and one stain away from being an asylum cell, where Jewel was free to sleep in his own piss, and write his diary on the walls in his fecal matter. When he thought about it, she did request of guests that they warn her a few days in advance of her coming; did she spend entire [i]days[/i] cleaning in preparation for these guests? Now [i]that[/i], to Jewel, was truly mad.

He tossed his suitcase haphazardly near one of the chairs. He'd unpack later, he resolved. For now he grabbed two pint glasses, and began fetching the long grocery-list of ingredients from his pantry and fridge, first the bottle of vegetable juice concentrates and then the hot sauce, the salt and pepper, and Worcestershire, and yes, a perfectly smooth, biohazard-yellow lemon.