roommate at large has surfaced. she is living next door to our apartment, though her stuff is still in this apartment. i can't help but think of wakefield, you know? (a few weeks ago on npr, paul auster read wakefield and i just wanted to curl up and sleep in his voice.)
my erstwhile roommate leads a double life, i'm sure. by day, she's the hot networking babe at an international banking giant. by night, she's a cia spy, or counter spy, or jewel thief, or car thief, or just a plain old neighborhood drunk who needs a secret apartment in which to tie one on. she skulks around the firecracker warehouse holding a bottle of jameson's and one night, if she's not careful, she'll drop a lit butt into a pile of sparklers and jimmy the clown's apartment will erupt in fiery light.
or, she smuggled her boyfriend back into the city; he's squatting in an abandoned apartment next door that's due for renovation, and she goes to be with him every night, taking him beer, cigarettes and crackers. when she leaves, she has to lock him in, like the guy from the pianist.
these are the ways i try and justify my roommate's weird behavior lately. any rational explanation wouldn't fit quite right.