“A few months?” He questioned. He wanted to tell her that he doubted her greatly, that there was no way she had been in his home this whole time. Where had he been in that time. They began to walk out to the courtyard, and she asked him for his name. “I…don’t know.” He said. He began to mess with his sleeves, but stopped midway through. “It’s like… I can tell you that my pants are from seven for all mankind, the Paxtyn line, which retail for a little more than $200. The belt is Gucci, which goes for over $350…But I can’t tell you how I got them, or if I actually paid that much for them. I know that I live…lived there.” He said, gesturing to the building once more. “I know one of the concierge’s has bleach blonde hair, but the carpet doesn’t match the curtain, and she has a tramp stamp of some punk band.” He chuckled a little, and then looked back at the woman. 

“Is this something you are used to? Like… you [i]see[/i] people like me?” He still refused to acknowledge that he was dead, but he was willing to consider that something else weird was going on. “You moved in a few months ago, and it was empty before then… So… where the hell have I been for the past eight months or so?” He asked. Somehow, he figured that she would have answers for him. If she couldn’t figure it out, then he would never go anywhere.