In all likelihood, he might have forgotten he'd invited Momoko over in the last five minutes. Something about teetering the tight rope of insomnia, 42 hours and counting. Wandering into his kitchen to silence the sirens of a boiling tea kettle(which he couldn't hear, but miraculously remembered before burning down the apartment), splish-splashing holy water onto a wicked witch (green)teabag. Tripwalk back through the living room, navigate the clothes on the floor and the beer bottle temple, take a seat back at the laptop.
Sip, savor, and register what you've done with dawning horror.
Lukas wasn't in a habit of welcoming ghosts. In fact, as he realized with a frenzied, instantaneous paranoia, he wasn't in the habit of welcoming anyone. Nobody had been into his apartment before, why hadn't he considered that when he'd been hacktyping out replies on the forum? He didn't even know what the fuck a koto was.
There was a reason for his solitude, and it wasn't just the stack of stained dishes in the sink or the mountain pile of National Geographic on the dining room table. Helpless in the sandpit of his living room, bloodshot eyes took a firm hold on the faded flicker of Wheel of Fortune playing soundlessly on his television. Maybe she wouldn't come.
Of course, Alfred's hackled posture when he rose from his nap like the prince of droolers was signal enough that somebody was approaching on the hall. Lukas could feel the beast's bark rumbling up from the floorboards, vibrating bare feet like the perfect alarm system.
He scratched the hound's ears on his way to the door, hesitating and then accepting with a downgrade of locks. Click, click, pop. The door was brought ajar.