Because it's too damned cold to sleep on a park bench and I have extra room anyway, Jeff's been staying with me the past week while he looks for a job and a place. We watch Woody Allen movies and he tells me his theories about society. Sometimes he plays my guitar better than I do. He is always getting phone calls from women wanting to buy him coffee. You work fast, Jeff, I say. Just don't bring any of those nineteen-year-olds round here. I know it ain't illegal, but I'm a woman of principles. And none of your chess-playing transients from the Harvard Square Au Bon Pain, either.
He got his job, and now I say Jeff, just stay here these next six weeks. Pay me rent. Then we can both figure it out. I'll miss your musings on Infinite Jest and Gravity's Rainbow, and you're so good about doing the dishes.
So I have a roommate, finally, with two months left to my lease. Mysterious ways.