on subletting and marriage

Originally uploaded by kristalynn.

"hey, you. come have some gelato."

and that, my friends, is how i came to be unwelcomely fondled by a brawny italian in the back room of a gelateria in brindisi.

i tend to take the road that looks the most interesting, with little regard or foresight for my general welfare. this is also why i hopped into a van teaming with drunk russians while stranded in the snow instead of waiting for the cab that i called 30 minutes previous.

so was it the crazy parade that i was expecting to come through my apartment when i placed an ad to sublet it for two months? most likely.

"what's the real rent?", "what's my share of the rent?", and "can i take over your lease?" were questions that got one's candidacy immediately withdrawn. sadly, my screening policy, as you have briefly seen, is not the most rigid.

my first prospect came by to see my apartment and, after taking a quick look around, declared that he would take it.

"well, i'm interviewing several people..."

"my word is not good enough for you? what do you need? a check?"

"no, i have many appointments. i'll be checking references..."

"well, this apartment is really nice. this room is particularly nice."

he was motioning to the bedroom.

"yes," i said, ambling into the living room. "the whole apartment is nice actually. it dates back to the turn of..."

"so in march, when you come back, are we going to be okay?"

"what?"

"are we going to be okay together?"

i realized that he thought i was to be his bride. i pressed my fingers together and brought them to my lips. "this apartment is mine. when i come back, i take the apartment back. you will leave."

"oh yes, i understand." he looked me up and down. "why are you so skinny?"

"i was made that way. so i will call you to let you know..."

"i like it. i will take it. can i try it out this weekend? this weekend i will come and live here. i want to try it out."

his face was expressionless and he was looking directly into my tank top.

"no you cannot."

"i like you. i want to meet you for a coffee. this weekend, we will meet for a coffee."

"no."

"what's your problem? are you married?"

"um, yes. yes." new life sprang into me as i told this lie.

"oh, i see. it's very smart to be married."

"yes it is smart. my fiancé (i choked on the word 'husband') lives upstairs."

he nodded. "this weekend we will meet. i want to be your friend." he stepped toward me and attempted to give me a hug.

i put my hand out in the "stop" position. my palm pressed firmly into his paunch, leaving imprints, indentations, and dimples. it was at this point that i had to question why i was standing in my own living room, keeping a strange, large, unknown man at bay by pressing my tiny hand into his belly.

"you're going to have to leave or i'm going to call..." who was i going to call? the police? my imaginary fiancé?

"you're not so nice anymore. you're scared of me." he did a mock lunge, like he thought that i thought he was going to kill me. i flinched and he laughed.

another potentially life-threatening gambol. i showed horny mcpretend-to-sublet to the door, which i locked behind him. this is the same door i locked behind me when i left for two months. there were no more interviews. there was no sublet. no thanks mary jane girls - not in my house.