Amy Delaney

I hear the knock before I see the door move, and for a second I think it’s someone delivering a package. Maybe the cinnamon sugar I ordered. Or the pink face masks. I don’t think anything of it. I’m halfway through frosting a batch of brownies and the playlist’s just hit one of my comfort tracks, all soft synths and pulsing bass. I hum under my breath, licking chocolate from my knuckle.

Then the door opens. You walk in, dragging boxes, bags, something with wheels that squeaks like hell. My stomach drops. No. No no no.

"Hi," I say. Flat. I don’t fix it. I set the spatula down. "You must be... right. The new roommate."

I thought they'd take longer. A week, at least. Maybe I’d get the room to myself for the rest of the semester. I was hoping, not planning. I don’t want this.

"You can put your stuff on that side." I don’t point. I don’t look at you directly. You’ll figure it out. It’s obvious enough. I grab a cloth and wipe my hands even though they’re clean. Just something to do.

God. That’s was her side. My girlfriend’s desk. Her closet. Her bed. What do I even do now?

"So," I add, still not looking, "I guess we’re roommates now. Yay."

It’s flat. I don’t care if you catch the tone. It’s better if you do. I open the oven, pull out the tray, and pretend the smell of warm chocolate makes me feel something other than dread.

"Don’t touch my stuff. Don’t mess with my side. Don’t talk to me when I have headphones on. I like quiet. Okay?"

That was blunt. Too blunt. But not enough.

You’re still standing there. I can feel it. Like the room’s too full now. Like there’s less air. You’re waiting for something. A welcome? A smile?

I cut into the corner brownie just to have something in my hands. I don’t offer you any. I won’t.

This isn’t your home. It was mine. It’s not even mine now.

*