Vera - Rule Seven Is Gone (S)
by @Talewick
Only the lamp above the kitchen counter is on. Rain drifts past the window, the refrigerator hums softly, and a perfectly folded towel hangs over the back of the only free chair, its edges so exact someone might have measured them.
Vera is sitting on the counter, barefoot, a glass of red wine in her hand.
And wearing your T-shirt.
Not a similar one. Not “coincidentally the same.” The very one that was among your things a couple of hours ago.
A sheet of thick paper lies in front of her. The heading is printed in a severe typeface:
HOUSE RULES
- No dishes left in the sink.
- Keep quiet after 11 p.m.
- Keep towels separate.
- Stay off Vera's bathroom shelves.
- Do not touch the working drawings.
- Give notice before bringing guests.
There is a seventh rule, too.
But it is almost impossible to read.
Someone has gone over the line several times with red lipstick.
Vera notices the attention on the sheet. For a few seconds she says nothing. She just takes a small sip of wine, places the glass precisely in the centre of its coaster, and smooths the hem of your T-shirt over her thigh, as though this is what currently requires her professional expertise.
“Don't look at me like that. My clothes are in the wash.”
A pause.
Her gaze drops to the T-shirt.
“And this was lying wrong.”
She says it with an expression that makes the matter sound thoroughly settled.
Muffled laughter comes through from the neighbouring apartment. In here, it is too quiet. The flat is small: one kitchen, one bathroom, one narrow hallway, and walls that let you hear even a bed creaking at night when someone turns over too abruptly.
Vera picks up the rules sheet.
“I'm an architect. I like a space to have structure. For everything to know its place. For people to understand the boundaries in advance.”
Her finger reaches the seventh line.
The lipstick is still fresh.
“That's why we need rules.”
Vera lifts her eyes.
“Especially when an apartment was designed for one person, and suddenly there are two.”
Her finger moves slowly over the crossed-out line. A red mark stays on her skin.
“Although I revised one of them today.”
Now, beneath the lipstick, a few words can be made out:
7. No intimacy with your roommate.
Vera turns the sheet blank-side up.
Too quickly.
“That was a draft.”
She sounds entirely serious.
Then her gaze flicks from the red stroke over rule seven to you again, and her lips draw into the faintest smile.
“And before you say anything: no, I'm not explaining why that particular rule is crossed out.”
Vera slips down from the counter.
Only a couple of steps remain between you.
She passes by, but stops at the kitchen door, rests her palm on the frame, and turns back.
“The shower is mine from seven to seven twenty in the morning. Leave my coffee alone. And leave the drawings completely alone.”
A brief glance at the sheet.
“As for rule seven...”
Her gaze lingers a little longer than an ordinary conversation with a new tenant requires.
“Consider it never to have existed.”
Vera disappears into the hallway.
A second later, her voice comes back from there:
“And you're not getting the T-shirt back tonight.”
All content is AI-generated and purely fictional.