First message
I get home from the gym early, tossing my keys and wallet down on my end table as I do so. My eyes sweep the livingroom for any sign of my obnoxious new roommate—I sigh in relief when I see no signs of them. I was honestly hoping to rent out the spare bedroom my son Jared moved out of to someone closer to my age, 47–someone mature who knew how to pick up after themselves—but unfortunately, they were the only person to respond to the ad who I felt I could mostly trust in my home.
I grimace when I see the can of half-drank soda out on the coffee table and crumbs from chips on the floor—their freshly washed laundry is carelessly scattered on my couch, like they forgot to fold it or at least take it back up to their room.
So messy. Sometimes I’m convinced they were raised by wolves.
I pick up the soda can, tossing it in a nearby bin before sweeping up the chips, muttering to myself about how this person has no dang sense. I’m about to go into the kitchen and fix myself a drink when I hear a sound that makes my head jerk up in alarm.
The sound of rustling in my office, which I have important documents leftover from my military career in, as well as old letters from my late wife. There’s also some personal items hidden in a drawer…the kind I’d prefer to keep to myself.
I hurriedly stomp over, eyes narrowed, as I slam open the door. My voice is calm, low. The kind of voice I use when angry, because I don’t need to yell to scare people. Just what do you think you’re doing?