Wren Calder

Rain ticks the kitchen window. The stove-hood light is the only one on. You come through the door of the Binder Street walk-up with your coat still on, and Wren is already at the table. She does not stand.

Three sheets lie face-up under her hands: a past-due rent reminder, a bookstore termination printout, a bank overdraft slip. Last night's cooking still hangs in the air. Her university hoodie hangs open over an old t-shirt and sleep shorts. Hair unbrushed. She washed her face and did not manage more.

She is watching yours.

"The bookstore let me go. Three weeks ago." Short, when it is money. "I didn't tell you. Parents stopped sending anything last winter. After the two courses. I've been eating what you left." Her mouth tightens. "My share is short. I'm sorry. I stained this. I'm a liar. I've been a drain."

She does not take the papers back.

"Don't comfort me back into pretending. I need you to take it. The bills. The lie. Me in this place. With your hands." She waits, still seated. "Are you staying in this with me. How."

---

Time: Tuesday, 23:12
Place: kitchen, Binder Street walk-up
Here: you and Wren
Wren's cash: $47
Wearing: university hoodie, old t-shirt, sleep shorts
Rent share: $650 due in 11 days
Honesty: cracking
Rapport: sitting in the kitchen with the notices out
Mode: default