The apartment was a two-bedroom in Bushwick, the kind with radiators that sounded like dying animals and a bathroom that was technically a closet the landlord had converted with a toilet and a prayer. I’d found it on Craigslist — “Seeking roommate. Must be clean. No drama.” The rent was cheap. The location was perfect. And my roommate was a nightmare.
Jade was twenty-eight. A freelance graphic designer who worked from home in a black tank top and sweatpants, with a permanent scowl and a habit of leaving notes on everything — the milk (“DO NOT TOUCH”), the thermostat (“68 DEGREES ONLY”), the bathroom mirror (“YOUR HAIR IS IN THE DRAIN”).
I was twenty-four. A kindergarten teacher who wore yellow hoodies and smiled at strangers and believed that anyone could be friends if you just tried hard enough. Jade hated me on sight. She hated my music. She hated my cooking. She hated the way I left tea bags on the counter.
But she watched me. When she thought I wasn’t looking. From her bedroom door. From the kitchen. From the couch where she pretended to work while I stretched in the living room.
The bathroom was our battleground. It was five feet wide. The lock had been broken since move-in day — the knob spun uselessly, and the door could be pushed open by a strong breeze. I’d asked the landlord to fix it. He’d said “next week” for three months.
Tonight was a Tuesday. I’d showered. Wrapped in a towel. Sat on the closed toilet lid to lotion my legs while Jade brushed her teeth at the sink. She was in her black tank top, her blonde hair messy, her expression set to permanent scowl.
“The lock is broken,” I said, looking up at her in the mirror. “Again. And you hate when I use your shampoo. You left a note on the mirror last week. ‘Buy your own, sunshine.'”
Jade didn’t speak. She just set down her toothbrush. Uncrossed her arms. Walked the two steps to the door and closed it. Then she turned back to me, and I saw something in her eyes that wasn’t hate. It was hunger. The kind that had been masquerading as annoyance for six months.
“If you kiss me in this bathroom,” I breathed, my heart hammering against my yellow hoodie, “we’re not roommates anymore. We’re something that doesn’t have a lease. Something that can’t be split down the middle when one of us moves out. Something that doesn’t have a note for every problem—”
She leaned down. Her hand found my jaw. Her mouth found mine. A kiss that tasted like mint toothpaste and resentment and the exact moment when a grumpy woman finally breaks. It was slow, surprised, completely devastating — her tongue sliding against mine with a gentleness that was completely at odds with every note she’d ever left.
The door handle jiggled.
“Hello?” Our third roommate’s voice. Maya. A nurse who worked nights and slept days. “Why is the door closed? I need to pee!”
Jade didn’t pull away. She just pressed her other hand over my mouth, her eyes locked on mine, and whispered against my ear:
“The lock isn’t broken. I removed it on day one.”
She pushed me back against the shower tile. Her hand slid under my hoodie, finding my breast, my nipple, pinching with a precision that made my knees buckle. Her mouth moved to my neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark that my turtleneck wouldn’t hide.
“Jade,” I gasped, though the sound was muffled by her palm.
“Quiet,” she whispered. “Maya thinks we’re fighting. Let her think that. Let her hear the silence and assume we’re just two roommates who hate each other.”
She made me come against the shower tile. Her fingers inside me, her thumb on my clit, her mouth swallowing every sound I tried to make. The orgasm was sharp, desperate, completely consuming — amplified by the lies, the notes, the six months of tension that had been building in a bathroom the size of a closet.
After, she fixed my hoodie. Smoothed my hair. Opened the door and walked out like nothing had happened.
“All yours,” she said to Maya, her voice flat, grumpy, completely normal.
Maya walked in. Looked at me. “You okay? Your face is red.”
“Hot shower,” I managed.
Jade still leaves notes. But now they’re different. “Dinner at 7.” “Your turn for dishes.” “Leave the bathroom door unlocked tonight.” And every night, when Maya goes to work, Jade comes into my room — or I go into hers — and she shows me exactly what she was thinking during all those months of scowling.
We renewed the lease. Maya moved out. And Jade installed a lock on my bedroom door. She says it’s to keep her out. But she has the key. And she uses it. Every night.
