Four

There's mild sun on the day I move in.

But it drizzled the night before and is threatening to again when I pull up to the house. A man is sitting on the stoop.

It's a suburban, unkempt, but was definitely beautiful when it was new. Arguably, it still is gorgeous, if you don't mind Asshole Vines* and peeling paint. The roof sags, but it doesn't look dangerous. I can imagine the neighborhood kids daring each other to run up and touch the door, claiming the house to be haunted.

Personally, I find it charming. I reckon the HOA would disagree, but I don't think there is one here.

The man on the porch is unkempt, too. A scraggly beard reaches down his neck. He's wearing a saggy, wrinkled tanktop. I can't tell from here, but it looks like it says "Hakuna My Tatas, Bitch". I can't stop myself from smiling.

He's wearing pajama pants. Oh, so those are his pajamas.

I glance at the clock on the dash.

It's 4 in the afternoon.

I feel like I know him already. I open the door and get out of the car, and he stands up, a good six-foot, five, to my five-foot, 10.

"It's me. I'm here," I say. I feel weird saying it, but he doesn't seem to care.

"Hey," he grins.

"It's really good to finally meet you," I tell him. It's weird, he sounds different in person. More... gravelly.

He nods. "Do you need help taking everything in?" He shifts a little, then points back at the house over his shoulder. "It's a bit of a mess. I tried to clean up your room, but I don't know how well I did."

I smile. "That's okay, I don't mind cleaning up a bit."

He turns, leading the way back to the house. He walks with a slight falter, favoring his right leg over his left, but otherwise, he seems confident on his feet. I follow him.

The inside of the house both reflects and upstages the outside. It's a bit of a mess, but I can deal with a messy house. He clearly takes out the trash regularly, at least. There's a bag of birdseed on the floor beside the door to the backyard.

"You feed birds?"

"Used to. Tons of them, in the backyard. I don't know why I stopped." He explains, then turns and heads into the next room.

It's a laundry room, suspiciously clean. I wonder if he does laundry. I don't think he does. I immediately wonder why. The stairs to the upper floor are in here, though, so I follow him up. There's a short hallway with four doors.

He passes the first one on the left and opens the next one on the right. He did a good job -- there's a fresh set of linens on the bed, still in the packaging, a box TV on a bulky desk on the opposite wall. The blinds on the single window look a little sad, but blinds are cheap and easy to install.

The carpet is mystifying. It's hard to tell if it was originally supposed to be this color, or if it just so happened to shift into this shade of brown. I decide to change the floors to wood at some point before I go.

He shifts in the doorway, and I drop two of my suitcases on the bed.

"This is perfect," I tell him.

His shoulders drop, a smile cresting across his face. "That's great."

"I'm a little tired from the drive. Do you mind if I just take a minute to unpack by myself?"

He nods, then turns and goes. I shut the door gently.

I turn around and fall onto the bare mattress.

I'm so totally screwed.

'Why,' you ask?

Because he's perfect.