The Choosing

She waved her lean fingers around the room in a display of displaced brevity. She was the first that morning, after weeks of failures. We sat around the plastic foldup table and ten dollar chairs that I called a dining room; or rather, I sat while she promenaded around the cabinets and fridge photos. The excessive parroting wore me out.

The second of the day was a masseuse: A gorgeous, well-endowed beauty with a foreign accent. My wife would kill me if I said yes to her.

I had readdressed my listing only a few days prior: vacant room, fair rent, sought after neighborhood, roommates to be a Marine and a gay man. Women came rolling in.

The third of the day slipped nude photos across the table to me, despite her engagement. (It’s never this easy when you’re single.)

The fifth was a young man who didn’t like the house.

The sixth a young woman that didn’t like the rent.

The seventh an older man who didn’t like me.

Then a beacon through a storm-filled sea: A pre-med student, expected to be holed up in her room, our schedules always different. She was just as ecstatic to find us as we were her.