The Blue House of 1478 (7) (Patreon)

I arrive at The Forget Me Not Café after dark, cursing Liza, drenched with rain, and with a cramp in my right calf.

I'm lucky there's even a warm shop in Sleepy Birch that doesn't abide by typical café hours. However, that's likely only because our town meetings interfere with their regular coffee and tea is for the morning's aesthetic.

"Hello?"

My soggy newspaper, unsurprisingly, has no leads asking for less than 1200 dollars a month, and neither does our local 'wanted' board outside of the library.

Thankfully, the Forget-Me-Not Café proves to be as good a source as any.  On the bulletin board by the doorway, like some hope-spot of fate, hangs a piece of printed paper:

Roommate Needed.

The leaser's number is planted beneath a sort of cryptic message, one I wouldn't bother contacting at all if it wasn't Sleepy Birch, where nothing crime-orientated has happened since the seventies, and also if I wasn't terrified of facing my sister's inevitable wrath.

600 a month.  Price non-negotiable.  Leasing one room in the house.  There are a washer and dryer in the foyer, an accessible kitchen, and internet.  All utilities are included aside from cable and overdraft fees.  Applicant must be quiet, smoke-free, and like dogs but have none of their own.  Address and more information are available after an in-person meeting.  Only serious, long-term tenants need apply.

"Hey, uh,"  I twist my useless newspaper in my hands, and of course, it rips. I happen to have my butt perched in one of the cafe's more uncomfortable barstools, but that's really the extent of my luck,  "I'm calling about your advertisement in the newspaper."

Mr. Fredrickson smiles softly, but I avoid his gentle gaze until one of his servers slides me a cup of tea.  The steam from it rises and cools in the air between us.  I smile in thanks and push away the damp hood of my raincoat.

"About the lease?" The responding voice is masculine, a low timbre to it, a comforting lull.  I hear the shuffling of paper in the background, the creak of a chair.  There's static, an unmistakable white noise.  "Are you interested?"

"Yeah, aka why I called,"  I slap my hand over my mouth and sigh.  I close my eyes and try to will the sassiness from my body.  A barista looks on with stifled humor,  "I mean, I'd like to set up some sort of way to meet you, maybe go over some stuff.  The price is pretty good and all."

"Hmm,"  There's a hesitation.  There's another creak.  I can feel his apprehension, "You're over eighteen?  Full-time job?  Not allergic to dogs?"

"Check, check, and dogs love me."  It's true, except for Ms. Mitchel's satan-Chihuahua, "Eh.  Except for Chihuahuas, they don't like me much.  I can't say I like them either.  Do they count?"

"We don't have a Chihuahua," The man chuckles, grittily through the feedback of my cell phone, a bit surprised at my humor, and then there's another wave of thundering white noise that has me yanking my phone away from my ear,

"Sorry? What did you say?"  I frown,  "My phone is prehistoric."

It crackles. Creaks. I take a sip of my tea to keep my nerves from exploding into some form of word-vomit.

"Let's meet at Forget Me Not Café and Antiques."

"Oh, weird." I laugh, eyes lifting to the chalkboard sign, then roaming around the patrons to see if anyone else just so happened to be on their phone as well.   "I'm actually calling from there."

"... I can't today."  His voice fades into something distant, lost through the café chatter and clinking spoons.  "It's not a good time."

I desperately click at the volume on my phone, but it doesn't seem to help.  Not when it feels like I'm holding my ear up to a fucking conch-shell.

Great timing, phone.

"Oh.  No, that makes sense." I sound like an idiot.  "Good idea is all.  What — I mean.  When?  I'm off on Saturday."

Wow, Theodore.  Smooth.  Not desperate at all.

"Noon, Saturday, Forget Me Not Café."  There's a quiet lull.  "Meet me then, in the back...  By the flowers.  Let's see if we can't work something out."

"Right, right — uh,"  I smile, feel more adult, throw the newspaper into the recycling bin next to me triumphantly, "My name is Theodore.  Who will I be looking for?"

"... blue cardigan."

I can't hear the rest of his sentence.

The dial-tone sounds.  When I try to call back, his phone number isn't listed in my recent calls.

Stupid phone.

I glance towards the recycling bin and sigh.  The barista glances at me curiously, and I lean forward in earnest.

"Any chance you guys have today's paper?"

She frowns,

"Afraid not."