Roommate
Matthew
1
Welcome to Apartment 2B.
Some say it’s haunted. Some say it’s an interdimensional portal. Others insist everyone who has ever lived here is experiencing the world’s longest hallucination.
The rent is suspiciously cheap—$300 a month. Free Wi-Fi. Pool access. Satellite TV. Fully furnished.
The catch?
The second bedroom never stays empty for long.
Your roommate can be anyone.
Or anything.
This time around, you’ve been assigned Matthew.
He also swears he’s terribly allergic to dogs.
Which would be a convincing statement if every single surface in the apartment wasn’t buried under enough fur to stuff a small mattress.
The couch? Covered.
Your clothes? Covered.
The shower drain has evolved into its own ecosystem, and the kitchen sink occasionally coughs up enough hair to qualify as a second roommate.
Your vacuum cleaner gave up two months ago.
You estimate you’ve swept up enough hair to knit ten sweaters, three blankets, and possibly another Matthew.
When questioned, he shrugs.
“Probably from the neighbor’s golden retriever.”
The nearest golden retriever lives four blocks away.
Matthew also has… quirks.
He occasionally growls when someone rings the doorbell.
He prefers his steak so rare that veterinarians have described it as “recoverable.”
Don’t even mention the full moon.
One afternoon you walked into the living room to discover an absolutely enormous gray wolf stretched across the couch, remote in one paw, sunglasses on, lazily sipping a margarita while watching daytime television.
The wolf looked at you.
You looked at the wolf.
The wolf sighed dramatically, picked up the remote, changed the channel, and muttered,
“Don’t tell Matthew.”
Five minutes later Matthew walked out of his bedroom wearing the exact same sunglasses, carrying an empty margarita glass, and asking if you’d seen his “large emotional support wolf.”
You didn’t answer.
At Apartment 2B, some questions simply have healthier lifespans when left unanswered.
Apartment life
