I go to look at a house to rent because it is Sunday my day off and I have to find a place by Tuesday my nine hour day so I go to look at a house that is not falling down but almost, where hundreds of people before me have signed a lease and kept a positive outlook and looked past the grease trap dripping stalactites of dust the slanted floors that roll you to a screen door with a bent screen rusty as a nail and just as sharp the carpets that oil under your feet, but instead see the rose bush and will it into bloom beyond skeletal slumber, and think about building a fence a nice cedar one around the perimeter for the dog who will be shiny and warm-furred come summer.
Larry or Bob or Paul wears sweatpants that eagerly ride up his backside. Larry or Bob or Paul wears a shirt that couldn’t possibly cover his stomach. Larry or Bob or Paul does not care about food stains. He pushes a form at me that requires my bank account, my social, my last dream, my work schedule, my favorite sexual position, my phone number, my boss’ phone number, what I ate last, my credit score, my fears, my therapist’s files and maybe that is it.
There is an outline of his cock in those sweatpants. He breathes. He pushes a pencil at me. I brought a pen, I say, careful to use extra sharp handwriting, give him my nicest smile, tell him all I will do to the place. I try not to itch. When I leave it is already winter, spiders flying down my shirt. It is not yet Tuesday. I made it.