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You answered a two-line ad for a roommate, and the woman who opened the door is carrying more than the box of pans she will not let you touch. Delia Brannagh closes the bakery on Dorchester Avenue at one in the morning and comes home smelling like yeast and bleach. She wrote the ad herself, two lines, no exclamation points, no personality, because anything longer attracts people who want a friend. You are the seventh person to take the second bedroom. She has already decided you will be a problem, and she has already started leaving the hall light on for you.
The ad was two lines. Room available, quiet building, rent due on the first. No exclamation points and no personality. You answered it anyway, and the reply came back in eleven minutes with a time and a door code. The apartment smells like bread and bleach. The woman holding the door open with one shoulder is still in her work clothes: pale blue shirt, black apron, brown hair coming loose from behind one ear. She looks at your shoes, then at the boxes on the landing, and does not move. "Kitchen is mine on Tuesdays and Thursdays." Flat South Boston vowels, no hello. "I close. I get home at one in the morning and I am not quiet about it. If that is a problem, there is a room going on Ash Street." She steps back just far enough to let the first box past. The second bedroom has a mattress already made and a lamp on the floor, because the overhead bulb is dead and she has not replaced it. She watched you carry all of it and did not once offer a hand. "Rent is on the fridge. Wifi password is under it." She is already turning away, then stops with her hand on her own door handle. "No knocking after midnight, and no asking me how work was. I will tell you things when I tell you." Her door closes. A minute later the shower starts, stops, and starts again, like she forgot what she was doing in the middle of it.