The doorbell on the apartment in Buenos Aires rang, which was a surprise- this area didn't get many salesmen. Martín put down the silverware he had been setting, and padded down the hall to open the door, finding on the other side the hopeful face of a stout, busty little woman who looked to be somewhere in her mid-thirties. She was wearing a decent red dress, and carrying a dish covered in aluminum foil, and when she saw him the expression on her face shifted slightly- from something almost excited, to merely polite.

"Hello?" he said first, disarmed. She didn't look like any agent of the law, nor did she look like a criminal, so he had no idea what she was doing at his door.

"Oh, pardon me," said the woman, shuffling her feet, like she too had forgotten herself. "I'm Paula Sanchez, I just moved in next door. I thought that, um, Mirko Dr-Dragic lived here?"

She stumbled over the pronunciation of Mirko's last name, and Martín stared at her incredulously. She was blushing. She looked like an idiot.

"Well, let me see," Martín said slowly. "Maybe he does."

Then he closed the door, and walked back to the kitchen, where Mirko was frying meatballs.

"Who is it?" Mirko asked, looking perfectly innocent, the way he usually did.

"A woman calling herself Paula Sanchez. Do you know her? Apparently she knows you."

"Oh," Mirko said, "Yes. She is the new neighbour. I carried boxes for her yesterday. You were at market."

"Ah," Martín said, and he thought for a moment, and then he smiled. Suddenly, he found he was enjoying himself. Without saying anything else, he trotted back to the door, and opened it to find Ms. Sanchez still standing there with the dish in her hands. Ridiculous. She smiled at him, but she didn't look quite so bright anymore.

"Well yes, as it turns out, he does," said Martín, now putting on charm. "And why have you come by to see him?"

"Oh, um, well," she said, looking over his shoulder, clearly hoping Mirko would come to the door instead. "I wanted to thank him for helping me yesterday. I made some brownies, see, it's a family recipe, and, um…"

"Ah, you must like him," Martín cooed, and he put his hands on his hips, delighting in the way her eyes darted about his face, clearly trying not to look at his scars, but having trouble looking elsewhere. "After all, he is so very strong and handsome. You do, don't you? Are you a single woman?"

"Excuse me," she said loudly, her face turning as red as her dress. "That's not- that's not- not very polite! I don't, uh-"

"You're right," Martín interrupted, his tone of voice gentle. "That wasn't very polite. My apologies. So, you made Mirko brownies because he's strong and handsome and helpful, and you're a single woman?"

She stared at him for a second, mouth hanging open, and then she said shortly: "Yes."

"Well, that's very kind," Martín purred. "I'll be sure to let him know."

Then he took the dish from her hands (she let it go easily, still stunned), and began to close the door.

"Wait," she said, expression like that of a rabbit in the headlights. "Who- who are you?"

"His boyfriend," Martín chirped, and then the door closed.

"What is it?" Mirko asked when Martín came back to the kitchen cackling like a maniac. He put the dish of brownies on the table, and didn't bother to reply.