your roommate is tall, dark and handsome. she's from the suburbs but speaks with a thick boston accent. her mother, she tells you, is salvadoran and her father is an asshole. when her boyfriend spends the night, you lay awake and listen to his ungodly snoring. you cry yourself to sleep thinking about taking the french midterm after a sleepless night only to be reawakened by another nasal warcry. you try to count sheep like ernie, but the bert in you knows you don't have a chance.
one time you walk in on them having sex. or at least you assume that is what they are doing in the dark with the one desk lamp lit beside the bed. you don't look, of course. you walk over to your side of the room, grab your books and leave. you don't feel bad. at this point, you can only feel a little more awkward.
when she is gone to spend her weekend hostessing at a steakhouse, you live on her side of the room. you wear her bathrobe, watch her movies, play with her makeup. you pride yourself in being so sneaky, so good at putting everything back in its right place.
but one monday she returns, hands you the pair of dirty underwear you left on her bed, and delivers the fateful words:
"i feel like someone's been touching my stuff."
