Maple Creek

And so it began. On a hot summer night, my to-be housemates ushered me into the bachelor gray living room, lavishly furnished with a pre-workout leather couch, the vintage kind where the cracks and wear added a weathered look that many would pay dearly for. It smelled of curry and bike grease.
"Sign here," Chris or Matt or maybe Jonathan said. The monotony of names matched the carpet.
I had given it the briefest of once overs, sweltering in the various sized shoebox rooms while humming to the... aria or Canyon Blvd. trucking traffic that rumbled insistently past the glass and shook my feet. I listened to the various stomping and cussing of our more colourful neighbours in the adjacent hall. I smiled.
"It's perfect," I thought to myself. I heard my pen scritch across the paper.

Weeks later a flustered pheasant of a woman with the rust red hair of a dyed scandinavian was bustling in the front yard.
"No lock bikes here! No dogs! Whose dog this?" I eyed the muddy pawprint left on the sidewalk.
"Could be anybody's," I answered, pointing to the adjacent park next to our building. "That's a dog park."
"Dogs! So many dogs!"
And she bustled out.

Needless to say, I resigned the lease. Read More