Blue cardigan.

The man’s pink hair was flowing on his shoulders when I invited him in.

A novelty he was, when he came into my apartment. He later grew dull as i slowly learned his name.

Walking into his messy room, i saw mountains of small black notebooks, all looking exactly alike, along with canned beers scrambled on the floor, leaving his desk to be the only perfectly clean part of his room.

It seemed like he lived in small patches:

A corner for messiness; another for art; then for cleanliness; the last for the slow death of his character.

A person so interesting that the bright colors of his soul were tiring to look at, even for him i believe.

The smiles faded as the months went by. His hair no longer flowed, it was now cut to his ears.

Occasionally (and the more i think about it, it increased gradually) I noticed a soft moaning in the middle of the night, like the howl of a small wolf, some kind of cry.

So after nights of admiring his every habit and every shape, the black under his eyes get deeper and deeper with winter coming in, the blue cardigan and the pink hair left. I had to welcome another roommate.

Long legs.

The first thing that hit me, as i watched him arrange the boxes in his room, was his peculiar height. A tall, fit man that could be mistaken for a model, could have been one if he tried. He never emptied them, these boxes. They remained completely full until his last night.

This one helped with the dishes, unlike the other renter, he was less of an inconvenience and more of a mystery.

Some days he would be gone, out of sight and almost out of mind. Until he came back, cleaned the entire house, then sat in his room.

One particular thing I remember is how he spent every night—when he was there, at least—looking for something in the newspapers. Undivided attention would go into reading each and every single page, then he would give in to exhaustion at three in the morning, every single night.

One foggy morning, after he had done the dishes with me for the eight-hundred’th time, I decided to present some of my gratefulness. I asked him about his papers, i asked him if i could help.

He was suddenly bewildered, scrambling through the stack of papers on his desk (the only messy part of his room), his eyes darting from one corner to the next and his tongue forming incoherent syllables.

“Please never ask such questions again” He finally said.

The next morning, he was gone.

Explanatory mouth.

The third and final time i rented out the room, a woman, old as an oak, stayed there for exactly 5 nights.

Her chapped lips and dry tongue almost repulsed me, but her mind kept bringing me back to experience something unexplainable.

One might say she was deranged, i would now say she was right to act this way.

The first night, as she moved in, murmurs kept evading her mouth, almost fighting to get out.

As low as they were, they felt excruciatingly loud.

Especially when i heard the names of my first two roommates, over and over again.

The woman was both an inconvenience and a mystery.

Some days she rocked back and forth on her bed, repeating words until she fell asleep.

Other days she was functional, no more no less.

I watched her almost constantly, borderline obsessed; some kind of passion had emerged for her.

She kept repeating the names.

She only ate twice her entire stay, she never did need to help me with the dishes.

And she kept repeating each name, each time clearer than the last.

Three nights had passed when i finally got weary of her misconstructed sentences and unexplained coincidences.

So I asked about everything, at that time, i simply exploded.

Some might say i was deranged, i don’t know if i was right to act that way.

After my uncontrollable anger was subdued,

she described pink hair and vivid colors,

her soft son that she hadn’t seen for months and missed so dearly,

assassinated by a man with attentive eyes and a cautious lifestyle.

The police were looking for long legs,

long legs killing a blue cardigan.

Torturing night after night, stab after stab.

The woman finally rested after bursting from the story held inside her heart.

I never rested a single day after.