You’re watching Judge Judy reruns when there’s a knock at the door. It’s Nicolas Cage. He pushes past you, takes your spot on the couch, and says, “You know, I’ve always wanted to live here.”
You’re home. Finally. After an overnight shift turned sixteen hour work day, you’re wiped. You pull the curtains, shutting out the sun, which seems seven times brighter than usual. You crumple onto the couch and allow the velour to envelop your butt, flipping through channels before landing on Judge Judy, your favorite. Five, ten, twenty minutes go by and you’re becoming one with your couch.
Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door. It’s barely 1 PM and everyone you know is at work. If it’s UPS or FedEx or USPS they’ll just leave whatever you forgot you ordered at the door. You don’t have the disposable income to have ordered something you would have to sign for, so you turn up the volume.
Judy’s screaming at a seventeen year old that’s suing her mother for defamation because her name made it too easy for bullies but the knocking gets louder and louder until you can’t ignore it any more.
Grumbling, you get up, answer the door, and it's Nicolas Cage, in all his glory, standing before you.
“Um, hi? Can I help you?” you say.
He barrels past you, takes your seat on the couch, your perfectly broken in seat, and says, “Judge Judy? I love Judge Judy!”
You’re still at the doorway, understandably stunned. You turn to look outside, searching for a camera crew. Maybe Ashton Kutcher’s bringing back Punk’D again. He isn’t, and there isn’t anybody else in your eyeline.
“Got anything to eat?” he says. You’ve never been a great host, or even a mediocre host, but you scrounge together something vaguely edible, placing it on the china your grandmother left you in the will, the nicest plate you own. By the time you turn to give it to him, Nicolas Cage has taken off both his shoes and his socks. His toenails are longer than your fingernails and his toes are longer than you’re comfortable with.
Your eyes grow wide, the smell of his feet just hitting your nose. They smell like cinnamon with vague citrus notes. It’s not necessarily unpleasant, it’s just... confusing.
“You know, I’ve always wanted to live here,” he says, removing his tie, rat-tail whipping you on the ass as you turn to walk away.
“I only have one bed,” you say.
He smiles at you, “That’s ok, I like to snuggle.” You don’t.
“Do you prefer the big spoon, or the little spoon?” he asks. You try to remember the last time you spooned with someone, but nothing comes to mind.
Nicolas Cage rifles through your coat closet before giggling at and pulling on a royal blue knit sweater adorned with your own smiling face, last year’s Christmas present from your prankster sister. It’s never been worn.
“What’s the rent?” he asks. “I’ll go in. Splitsies!”
You’re distracted by your own face gracing Oscar winning actor Nicolas Cage’s chest. It takes you about three weeks to speak to him again, but by then he’s already started wearing all your clothes.