To: Ruth Ferron

From: Marcel Simmons

Subject: Ad

Received: 1:29 p.m \\ April 25, 2017

Hello,

    I came across your ad regarding renting out a space in your two bedroom apartment. As you may have already guessed, I am interested in your offer and hope to be considered as a possible occupant. While there may be a few complications with this - mainly being gender - your offer was the only one within my budget. 

    I consider myself easy to live with. I assure you I won't cause you any problems, and if it so happens that I do, I guarantee they will easily be resolved. I'm not an early riser, but I do not consider myself a night owl either. I mostly keep to myself, so you will not have to worry about strange people appearing at your door. Well, aside from myself. I am organized and would be more than happy to help keep the place neat. I even cook as well.

    Oh, and an added bonus to having me as a roommate: Loud music - or anything loud, really - will not be an issue. I won't be able to hear it. 

    I look forward to receiving your response.

- Marcel Simmons  

    Ruth sat frowning at the lit screen of her laptop, her sand-brown eyes narrowed as they skimmed over the email once again. She was not picky in regards to who would be rooming with her, but this short email had plenty of problems according to her standards. She did not expect to be rooming with a male, not fond of any of them for that matter simply because of her problematic experiences with past boyfriends and other male figures in her life. I mostly keep to myself, the email read. But why? The idea of having another human being in the apartment with no interaction was unsettling to her. 

    Ruth leaned back against the cushion of her swivel chair, using her toes to slowly twirl herself back and forth. She kept re-reading that one sentence: I won't be able to hear it. 

    What did that mean? 

    Rolling back her shoulders, Ruth clicked the reply button, a blank screen appearing in front of her eyes where she was to write a responding email. 

To: Marcel Simmons

From: Ruth Ferron

Subject: Re: Ad

Received: 11:29 p.m \\ April 28, 2017

Hi,

    Thank you for answering my ad. Though, I still have a few questions. I'd like to discuss this over the phone; you can call the number provided on my ad anytime tomorrow afternoon.

Thanks.

    After skimming through the email, Ruth pressed send, the window disappearing. Feeling exhausted, she stretched her arms over her head with a small yawn, sighing in relief when her joints popped in response. Before she could close her laptop, though, she received a notification. The ping caused her to pause, frowning as she noticed the small '1' next to her inbox. Clicking it, she soon realized that Marcel had responded. 

    "What the—" Ruth squinted at the displayed time, seeing it was half past eleven. She didn't expect a reply so soon, and she couldn't help the flare of annoyance that rose within her. With a heavy sigh, she opened the email.

To: Ruth Ferron

From: Marcel Simmons

Subject: Re: Re: Ad

Received: 11:31 p.m \\ April 28, 2017

Hello again,

    Ask your questions now.

Thanks

-Marcel Simmons

    Ruth scoffed in disbelief after reading the blunt email. Now? She had half the mind to just close her laptop and call it a night, holding off on this until tomorrow when she was well-rested and less agitated. But, her pride got the best of her, and her fingers were hastily typing out a response.

To: Marcel Simmons

From: Ruth Ferron

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Ad

Received: 11:33 p.m \\ April 28, 2017

Hi.

    As I said earlier, I'd prefer to discuss this over phone. Tomorrow.

Thanks for your cooperation.

    Ruth pressed the send key firmly, crossing her arms afterwards. Her hard glare remained glued to her email, mentally daring this stranger to reply to her again. She'd thought she made it perfectly clear that she was not interested in the matter at this time, not to mention the time. It was much too late to go into detail about all of the questions and concerns that she had, that and she didn't feel like it anyway. 

    However, much to her surprise and dismay, another email popped up in her notifications. For a moment, she sat staring at the unopened email, her right eye slightly twitching. With a tired sigh, she clicked.

To: Ruth Ferron

From: Marcel Simmons

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Ad

Received: 11:35 \\ April 28, 2017

Unfortunately for you, talking over the phone is not a possibility. What questions do you have?

-Marcel Simmons

    Once again, confusion settled in a heavy haze over Ruth's head, only heightening her annoyance. "Not a possibility?" She murmured to herself, her eyes once again narrowed. Gritting her teeth, her fingers once again flew over the keyboard.

To: Marcel Simmons

From: Ruth Ferron

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Ad

Received: 11:37 p.m \\ April 28, 2017

I said tomorrow. If you don't want to ruin any chances of me even considering you being my roommate, I'd suggest you stop emailing me and call me tomorrow like I asked.

    After sending the email, Ruth sat back in the chair and rubbed her face with a groan. She was having such a good day, but of course it was too good to be true. Something always had to come along and ruin it, and now was a perfect example. 

    Minutes passed by without a reply from Marcel, and Ruth couldn't decide if it was a good or bad thing. Despite her annoyance, his persistence intrigued her. Entertained her, even. Ruth sat staring at her laptop screen for a few minutes more before placing her hand on the lid, suspiciously narrowing her eyes as she slowly angled it down. Another ping made her jump and she hastily opened her laptop all the way again, opening the email. 

To: Ruth Ferron

From: Marcel Simmons

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Ad

Received: 11:48 p.m \\ April 28. 2017

If you had read my first email carefully, you would have understood that speaking on the phone is not a possibility. At least not without the proper materials. 

I am deaf and mute. Which means I cannot hear nor can I speak, Ruth.

-Marcel Simmons

    Ruth blinked in surprise, her eyes wide and her lips slightly parted. All of the ill-feelings towards this stranger almost immediately dissipated, replaced with a feeling that she couldn't quite put her finger on. Pity? Sympathy? Curiosity?

    If there was one thing that she was certain of, however, it was guilt. Perhaps she should have read the email more closely, after all, he did say he wouldn't be able to hear. But he could've just said that from the beginning, her conscious countered. Not speak in riddles. Ruth drummed her fingers against the mouse pad, nibbling on her bottom lip as she pondered on how to reply. If he wasn't already pissed at her, he was certainly pissed now. She could tell, somehow. There was a shift in his reply; he seemed to lose the cool, laid-back persona he had before.

    Crap.

    Ruth's mouse hovered over the reply button, but she couldn't figure out what to say. Obviously both of them were upset with each other for different reasons, and no good would come out of this if they dwelled on it. Of course, Ruth could just apologize.

    Ruth's pride reared its head, shaking her head back and forth with an arched eyebrow. Ruth mimicked her, rolling back her shoulders and pushing the reply button. She wouldn't have to apologize. 

To: Marcel Simmons

From: Ruth Ferron

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Ad

Received: 11:54 p.m \\ April 28, 2017

I see. I guess I didn't catch that.

Then how are we to go about this? If you don't speak and can't hear, how will this even work?

From: Marcel Simmons

To: Ruth Ferron

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Ad

Received: 11: 56 p.m \\ April 28, 2017

Pen and paper exist, I can read lips, we'll figure it out. Tomorrow afternoon I will stop by and we can talk. Is that alright with you?

    Ruth sighed, crossing her arms as she regarded the email with a blank expression. "We'll figure it out, huh?" She mumbled, rubbing her eye. She didn't want to "figure it out". She just wanted to go to bed. She just wanted to get this over with. She didn't even want a roommate anymore, she could just figure out how to pay rent herself. She could go without food for a couple of weeks. If that didn't work, perhaps she could rob a bank.

    So far, Marcel had been the only one to reply to her ad, and she had been growing desperate for some type of help. She couldn't afford to be picky, she just had to take it or leave it. 

    Rolling her eyes, she began typing out a reply. 

To: Marcel Simmons

From: Ruth Ferron

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Ad

Received: 12:00 a.m \\ April 29, 2017    

Okay

    "Note to self; when you're expecting a visitor, clean up after yourself." Ruth grunted as she gathered the remaining bits of stray clothing that was littered around her living space, hurrying back into her room to put in with her growing pile of dirty laundry.

    It was nearing one in the afternoon, and after much procrastination, Ruth had finally gotten around to preparing for Marcel's arrival. He had emailed her earlier, informing her that he would drop by around 1:45, giving Ruth limited time to prepare. She had closed off her room - attempting to clean that up would be a lost cause. They wouldn't need to be in her room anyway. She had planned to keep them in the living room, where there was a comfortable couch and a coffee table, already equipped with pen and paper. And a bottle of Advil.

    Once Ruth was able to see her carpeted floor again, she sighed, rubbing her forearm against her damp forehead. It had grown progressively hotter inside, but Ruth refused to turn on the AC. She had managed to survive in the growing heat, though, with her abundance of curly, dark brown hair tied in a bun on top of her head, dressed only in a tank top and a pair of athletic shorts. She placed her fists on her hips, her breathing slightly heavy as she surveyed her surroundings. 

    Would Marcel even care if it looked messy or not? He didn't seem like he would be bothered by a small mess here and there. Ruth felt her annoyance flare again; it was all his fault for making her fuss over everything like this. And then she felt a sudden surge of annoyance at herself, wondering why she couldn't just be neat, which could've easily allowed her to avoid this binge cleaning session. 

    Rolling her eyes, Ruth turn on her heel and walked barefoot into the small kitchen. Her mouth and throat felt dry when she swallowed, her skin covered with a thin sheet of sweat. After retrieving a cup from the cabinet, Ruth walked to the refrigerator to get some ice - crushed as always. As she pushed the button on the fridge and pressed the cup against the lever, Ruth's eyes caught sight of an object held by a magnet on the door of the fridge. Tilting her head, she pulled it from under the weight, bringing it closer to her face.

    It was an undeveloped Polaroid picture.

    Before Ruth could question it further, a loud banging on her front door startled her, causing her to drop the picture as well as spill ice all over the floor. "Oh, mother—" Ruth let out a frustrated groan, quickly grabbing the cup that had become airborne in the midst of her jump. The banging sounded again, and Ruth frowned deeply at the front door. If there was one thing she hated, it was unnecessarily loud knocking. 

    Ruth harshly placed the cup on the nearby wooden table, it making a loud clattering sound as she stormed out of the kitchen. The banging sounded again, this time the fist colliding with the door many more times than it had previously. "I'm coming!" Ruth yelled in frustration, only to shriek in pain when her toe collided with the corner of the couch. "Oh my f—Jesus Christ!" She exclaimed, nearly falling to the ground as the pain spread throughout her entire foot.

    The banging ceased.

    Ruth, her cheeks now stained an angry red, limped over to the front door, her face seemingly frozen in the same grimace of pain. She slid open the bolt, switched the lock, and pulled open the door. "Who do you think you are, knocking on my door like you're the police or something?" She immediately exploded. "Are you trying to break it down?" 

    Standing on the other side of the door was a man, a foot or two taller than Ruth. Ruth didn't notice much about him at first, for she was too overcome by her anger to fully acknowledge him. His head was tilted towards the door at an awkward angle when she first opened it, his dark eyebrows pulled so close together it looked like they were one. When Ruth opened the door, screaming at him, he immediately flinched back. The color had drained from his olive-toned skin, his face turning a ghostly white as his eyes widened to an impossible size. 

    Ruth blinked at him, raising her eyebrows and stretching her mouth into a firm line. "Well?" She questioned, him flinching again. "What do you want?"

    In the blink of an eye, the man had vanished, breaking out into a run the second Ruth had finished speaking. 

    Ruth stood staring at the empty space where he once was, listening to his footsteps as he clambered down the steps and the creaking of the main entrance door as it was pushed open. Coming back to her senses, Ruth licked her lips and stepped farther out of her apartment, peering down the steps which he so hastily descended.

    Did she really look that bad?

    As Ruth prepared to take another step towards the steps, her bare foot landed on a solid object. She looked down, removing her foot from whatever it was that she stepped on. It was a wallet. Most likely the wallet of the person she had just encountered. Ruth looked back towards the door again, as if expecting him to walk back inside any minute to reclaim this lost item.

    Why did he run off so fast? Ruth wondered as she bent down to pick up the black, leather wallet, turning to go back inside of her apartment. As she kicked the door closed, she glanced at the clock hanging on her wall. 1:15.

    "At least he didn't show up when Marcel was here," Ruth thought aloud with a sigh as she looked down at the wallet clutched in her hand. It looked worn, stray pieces of string from the stitches sticking out from the frayed edges and various scratches covering the leather. She twisted her mouth to the side, narrowing her eyes. Should she look inside? Would it be wrong of her to do so?

    Ruth's prideful alter ego stirred, once again rearing her head with a flip of her hair off of her shoulder. He dropped it outside of your door, so technically you have the right to.

    Ruth tapped against the tough leather with her thumbnail, reaching out to her reasonable side. Perhaps there was contact information inside that she could use to inform him that he left this here. After all, wallets were pretty important; he was bound to have something crucial in here. 

    This being the persuasion she needed, Ruth turned the wallet in her hands, cracking it open like a book.

    It just looked like an average wallet. Various cards were tucked in the pockets; gift cards, a debit card, credit card. A small picture that was frayed around the edges rested behind a plastic covering, it's faded appearance an obvious indicator of it's age. It was too distorted for Ruth to figure out what it was.

    Allowing her curiosity to get the best of her, Ruth began searching through the various pockets and zippers, eventually finding where he kept his money. Ruth glanced behind her after seeing the flash of green, once again feeling as though he would return at any moment. Pinching the paper between her index finger and thumb, Ruth pulled out a bill. A small gasp emitted from her mouth when she caught sight of Ulysses S. Grant's face, quickly replacing the money.

    "Do not stoop so low," she reminded herself, zipping it back up. She was never one to steal, and she wasn't going to start now.

    Deciding she had enough of snooping, Ruth began the search for an I.D of some sorts. She pulled out the cards halfway, examining their contents in search for something that would give her answers. Nestled behind a Best Buy gift card, Ruth had managed to find exactly what she was looking for. A driver's license. Ruth removed the card and closed the wallet, her eyes remaining glued to the plastic.

    His eyes were green.

    Dark, wavy hair sat messily on top of his head, adding to his youthful look. His lips were upturned in a barely-there smile, but he was still smiling nonetheless. A ghost of a smile that seemed so transparent, but still withheld depth. His emerald eyes seemed blank as they reflected the flash of the camera, yet there was something swirling beneath them. A dark cluster of something that Ruth could not seem to point out. 

    Ruth crinkled her eyebrows, clenching her jaw as she continued to examine his photo. He actually was quite handsome.

    Ruth's pride waggled her finger, her bottom lip poked out in a pout as she glared.

    Ruth lifted her chin, shrugging. He looks...average, she decided, forcing herself out of the stranger's capturing irises. Besides, that's not what the whole point of this was. "Name. You need his name," Ruth reminded herself. She squinted at the black print, skimming over the miscellaneous information until she found what she was looking for.

    Marcel Simmons.