One Boyer Street has a revolving door for loonies. Last week our semi-normal roommate, Erica, moved out, and in her room now lives Tekla. I met her a few nights ago when Ryan and I were fixing the internet connection in her room. From her belongings I gathered that she is a fitness buff with a passion for Eddie Murphy movies. Also, she has a copy of the Kama Sutra displayed by her bedside. She's going to be a fun neighbor, I thought.
Two nights ago she came into the kitchen when I was cooking and I asked her where she came from. She has moved from southern England to be near her boyfriend, which is always a fool-proof idea, especially when he gives you the choice: move here or I'll break up with you. Tekla has my sympathy for her misfortunes of living at this property and from having an asshole boyfriend, whom I later met.
The boyfriend parked his bike in our minuscule entryway and came in while we were eating to ask us about "a lighter, you know, for fags. I want to have a fag." I told him we didn't have one, but offered up our bounteous supply of kitchen matches, which are our only means of lighting the stove/oven. He promised to bring them right back.
An hour later I was reading in bed whilst Ryan worked on a lab report. We heard shouting and banging on Tekla's door; she had, for some reason, locked him out. He cussed at her and she eventually opened up. The smell of pot leaked out of her doorway and we heard a loud chanting for the next hour or so. We didn't get the matches back.
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