I open the door and find her sitting behind her desk. She’s a woman in her sixties with steel-gray hair yanked into a tight bun and reading glasses perched halfway down her nose like she’s in the middle of judging something. Her office is small and cluttered, the air faintly scented with coffee and old newspaper, and beneath it all a stubborn hint of cinnamon.
She doesn’t even look up when she says, “Have a seat,” gesturing to a well-worn couch by the wall.
I sink into the squeaky cushions, and they exhale dust and resignation like they’ve heard every desperate request this building can produce. “I was wondering if there are any other units available that I might be able to move to,” I say, folding my hands neatly in my lap to keep them from betraying how badly I want this.
Mrs. Thompson arches an eyebrow. “Is there something wrong with your current one?”
“Well...not really.” How can I explain the situation without sounding like a lovesick teenager? “I’m not comfortable in my current unit.”
She finally looks up, and the glare she pins on me makes the hair at the back of my neck rise. I shift on the couch. “Uncomfortable how?” she asks. “Something wrong with the apartment? Mold? Leaks? Ghosts with boundary issues?
“No, the apartment is fine,” I say quickly. “It’s just...my neighbor. We have a bit of, um, history, and it’s—awkward.”
Mrs. Thompson chuckles. “Ah, young love.” Then she leans back in her chair, and the humor drains from her face, crow’s feet deepening around eyes that look like they’ve witnessed too many tenant-drama episodes to be impressed by mine.
My stomach bottoms out. “None at all?”
“Sorry, dear,” she says, already signing another form, pen scratching like a verdict. “This isn’t the Ritz-Carlton. We don’thave extra rooms just waiting for someone.” She doesn’t even blink. “You’ll have to make do.”
I bite my lip, ready to beg if I have to. “What about...a closet. I don’t need much space.”
She barks a laugh. “A closet? Sweetheart, our closets can barely fit a pair of boots, let alone a person with baggage—emotional or otherwise.”
Tapping my foot against the worn carpet, I manage, “So there’s really nothing?” I tip my chin up and deploy my best puppy-eyes, clasping my hands together so tightly my fingers go white. “Please,” I whisper. “I’m desperate.”
Mrs. Thompson heaves a sigh and shuffles through her forms like she’s dealing herself a particularly disappointing hand. “There might be a unit on the second floor,” she says at last, eyes still on the paperwork. “But it’s got questionable plumbing. I meant to fix it, but with the economy in a recession, even if the government won’t admit it…” She clicks her tongue and flips a page. “The budget’s been tighter than the lid on last year’s pickle jars.”
I spring off the couch so fast it squeals. “I’ll take it,” I blurt, enthusiasm bursting out of me like I’ve been offered salvation. I’ll live with questionable plumbing. I’ll survive sewage backup. Anything is better than sharing a hallway with my ex.
She sighs again and extracts from the drawer of her desk what looks like master keys—a jangling collection that would make a medieval jailer proud. “Come with me,” she says as she rises from her chair.
I follow Mrs. Thompson up to the second floor, listening as the keys on her ring clatter with every step. At the door, she fumbles with the bunch and mutters under her breath about budget cuts and incompetent locksmiths, until the lock finally gives and the door swings open with a long, complaining creak.
“Here we are,” she announces.
Not at all what I expected. The apartment—if you can even call it that—is at least a third smaller than my current unit. The living room carries an overpowering smell of what I can only describe as the essence of an abandoned gym bag mixed with discount air freshener. Dust particles dance in the thin beam of light struggling through a small window that faces a brick wall.
I can do this, I tell myself. I’d happily live in an actual broom closet if it meant not sharing a wall with my ex.
“It’s...cozy,” I offer, forcing my voice to sound cheerful rather than horrified. A quick spritz of Lysol and some scented candles could take care of the smell. Maybe. Hopefully.
“The previous tenant had unusual hobbies,” Mrs. Thompson says cryptically. “Nothing illegal. Just...pungent.”
Wonderful.
She leads me toward a narrow doorway. “Bathroom’s here.”
The bathroom looks like it’s trapped mid-renovation, abandoned so abruptly it’s as if the contractor fled the country in the dead of night. Exposed pipes jut from the wall like metal veins, and strips of wallpaper hang in limp surrender, peeling away inch by inch, as if gravity has been winning this battle for years.
Mrs. Thompson twists the shower knob, and the pipes answer like they’ve been personally offended, clanking and wheezing, followed by a sharp thud that sounds disturbingly like a baseball bat meeting a ball. Only then does the water finally sputter out, coughing into an uneven stream.
“It should normalize,” she says, in the tone of someone who clearly doubts it.
Okay. Fine. Temperamental plumbing I can handle, as long as it doesn’t come with a rash that requires its own medical journal article. I gesture at the exposed pipes, eyeing them like they might twitch. “There’s no dead animal in there, is there?” I ask.
Mrs. Thompson’s lips twitch. “Don’t be ridiculous.” But the faint amusement in her eyes doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.
Just as she’s about to show me the bedroom, the one I’m already picturing as a glorified closet with a mattress jammed inside, a knock sounds at the front door. We both turn at the same time to see who it is.
