Sheila Fenson

218, 219 I read the numbers of the doors carefully. After I had been abroad for a while I decided to find an apartment, but I was strapped for cash; I had no choice but find a roommate. A friend had recommended one to me. “She’s quiet, but extremely smart,” he’d told me. “You might learn a thing or two from her.”
221. I double-checked the paper slip with the address. 2 Baker, Apt. 221. This was it. I knocked.
“Come in,” a voice resounded from within.
She was of slight stature, her face angularly astute; her dark brown eyes were looking me over intently. She leaned back in a Mottville chair, brushing long red hair out of her face.
“Come straight from the airport, have you?” she asked. Her lilting voice was tinged with a British accent.
I balked. “How’d you know?”
She chuckled to herself. “How could one miss the dust on your shoes? Traveling by plane leaves a peculiar dust, especially on black Converse. You are..?”
“James Watt.”
“Ah, the new roommate. Sheila Fenson, glad to make your acquaintance.”

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