Home inspection

"Okay. You were not exaggerating."

"I warned you. It may not be no Aegean stables, but it's a labor."

"It's Augean, not...." she glances over and sees that you're punking her. She ducks her head and makes a small sound of exasperation, but you’re pretty sure she’s hiding a grin.

Diana and you are staring at the inside of the house you’ve been living in for the last several months. A modest, one-story job (translation: small and shitty) maybe 1,000 sq. ft.. Filled with at least 5,000 sq. ft. worth of junk. “I would not have pegged you for a hoarder,” Diana says thoughtfully.

“What would you peg me for?” If Diana catches the pegging reference she chooses to ignore it. “It’s not my junk. Well, 99% of it isn’t. A buddy agreed to let me stay here for free if I cleaned the place up.” You look over at her and say, deadpan, "I haven't quite gotten to that part yet."

"Really?” she says as if it’s not the most obvious thing ever.

She walks through the living room and into the kitchen, where stacks of empty dishes vie for space with cereal boxes, empty beer bottles, and ramen packages. She looks over at you and raises an eyebrow.

"It's possible I've been going through a bout of depression," you state matter-of-factly.

An odd expression crosses her face, not sympathy exactly, but perhaps for the first time considering that you may in fact be going through your own shit independent of her. “How much of this do we need to sort out to keep?”

“Zero,” you say definitively. “I already moved out the handful of things I want to hold onto. I pretty much bought all new stuff for the condo. Thank you for that, by the way.” Diana nods absently, as if handing you half a mil is a trivial matter hardly worth mentioning. Man, the rich really are different. “There's a construction dumpster out in the back yard to fill up, and it’s got privacy fences so you won't have to worry about being seen.” You pause for emphasis. “Given that I'm owed a striptease and all."

Diana meets your gaze and nods seriously. “I have not forgotten.” You look down pointedly at her baggy sweatshirt and the jeans that are hugging zero curves, and duck your head to the side with a skeptical face. “Don't worry, the agreement was that Wonder Woman would strip for you, not Diana Prince. But I thought showing up on your doorstep in armor might draw some unwanted attention. I can change now if you like?”

You make a "please go ahead" gesture, and Diana pulls out her golden lasso from somewhere. She twirls it expertly over her head, then lowers the loop down around herself to the floor, and as she raises the loop back up over her head, Wonder Woman is standing there in full costume – sorry, “armor.”

She retrieves the music player she had set down earlier. “Is there any specific place you would like this to happen?” You gesture towards a doorway and follow her in.

Your bedroom is the one room you bothered to keep mostly clean, and you've already dragged your old crappy mattress out to make room. The only thing remaining is a battered but serviceable camp chair beside the door. The Amazon gives a small Coulda Been Worse shrug, and sets down the music player.

“I’m impressed you bothered to choose your own music.”

“If I’m going to do a serious dance it helps to know what I’m dancing to,” she says as if talking to a small child.

“Are you this competitive about everything?”

“You have no idea,” the beautiful heroine says flatly, and hits play.

You weren’t sure if you should expect more Nina Simone or something adjacent. But then a horn section kicks off followed by Joe Cocker announcing that she can in fact leave her hat on, and your jaw hits the floor.