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The primary reason I am typing to you now on my infuriatingly tiny cellular telephone screen is to inform you that someone replied to the Craigslist advertisement you placed for me.
I suppose she will do. Even if she is odd.
I am blocking your number as soon as I work out how that is done.
“My pots and pans are at the shop. Being repaired.”
I am presently at a store that sells cooking implements. An entire section of the store is dedicated to “saucepans.” Other customers seem quite enamored with them but before I purchase one for the apartment I wanted to confirm that sauce is something you eat.
Dear Diary,
FREDERICK HAS A DIARY?! HE IS SO CUTE
“Coffee,” Frederick confirmed, looking extremely pleased with himself. And then, as an afterthought, he added, “Please.”
“You need a roommate because you need someone to help you navigate the modern world.”
Frederick held his hands up in front of his face, frowning at them. “Hands-on? I will admit I had not imagined using our hands as a part of the instruction process. But if you think touching would help …”
“Over the past two weeks I’ve discovered that in this city of millions, you are one of a kind.”
“Do not think for one moment that you are replaceable, Cassie Greenberg,” he said. He sounded almost angry. “For you are anything but.”
“I simply do not understand this modern urge to share every errant thought one has with the entire world the instant it happens.”
Warm, and cool. Small, and large. Tanned, and pale.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice strained. His eyes never left my face. “Cassie likes this shirt. I will take one in every color.”
Mr. Frederick J. Fitzwilliam’s Google Search History
He wore a black apron over his clothes with the words This Guy Rubs His Own Meat in large white Comic Sans lettering.
“You never told me Frederick was such a big Taylor Swift fan.”
“You are not a failure,” he said firmly. “Anyone who made you feel like one will have me to deal with.”
He might be an undead creature of the night—but as undead creatures of the night went, he was a marshmallow.
“Unfortunately, all I can do is somewhat involuntarily conjure fruit when I’m nervous.”
