I check my reflection in the elevator's mirrored surface and smooth down the few flyaway hairs on top of my head. Yesterday Ryland worked for over an hour with me on how to use crutches. It's difficult, but at least I'm not a total mess on them any longer. This morning as I prepped for my first day back to work, I dressed extra nice in my favorite black business suit with a slimming pink blouse. I didn't dress nicely so Ryland would visualize me in clothes other than pajama pants with ponies on them. I did it for work.It didn't matter. I fumbled out my door and was met by a Post-it note stuck to the front of Ryland's. The man loves his sticky notes. His chicken scratch scrawl on the bright yellow paper let me know he'd started a morning run but left the door unlocked. I wasn't let down or anything. It's better I wasn't forced to deal with his attitude so early in the day.Nine hours later and for unknown reasons, my nerves are ratcheted. I'm not sure what I'll find in Ryland's apa

What sweet hell is this? Today, the first time this week I've felt comfortable walking into Ryland's condo and I'm greeted with this? I wasn't prepared for this."Hey." The man in question raises one hand to wave at me while I stand at the end of his hallway gaping. He's positioned between me and the door in a bright orange kayak wearing a life vest and using a matching orange oar to fake paddle on his hardwood floors.Ryland's gone insane. Do I laugh, cry, or call an institution for him?Back to his rowing, he leans forward in the seat and paddles with short quick strokes. Fake waves? Rapids?"What are you doing, Ryland?"My question interrupts his stroke and he straightens, slowing his paddle motion. "Practicing my rowing," he answers over a shrug like I'm weird for asking and this is a normal everyday occurrence around here. Hell, maybe it is."Where are you planning to kayak in San Francisco?"This time he puts the oar down on the side of his vessel. "The bay," he ans

555-7845: What are you doing?The text, from a number not already in my phone and an area code I've never heard of, flashes on my phone screen until I'm curious enough to open it. 555 Where is that, Oz? I almost don't respond, but my Good Samaritan wins out in the end. It's a Saturday afternoon and I'm stuck in my teeny tiny apartment with nothing to do but watch television. Even worse, reality television.Anyway, in the end I text back because there's a chance it's a random cutie... I mean the Good Samaritan thing.Me: Who is this?555-7845: Your favorite sexy landlord.Ryland. No one at my last complex could be considered sexy. A few hundred questions come to mind. Where is he? Why is he texting me? How did he get my number? When did Mr. Runs Ten Miles Every Morning decide he's too lazy to walk across the hall? They're important questions, which I'll ask eventually, but I can't miss my chance to screw with him a smidge first. The man's a tad uptight at times. Humor will do

Later in the night the new sword from Grant sparkles from its enchantments as I swing the glowing blade toward the large rat at the face of the cave. The sound of clashing metal sings through the television speakers as I step over the dead rat carcass to claim the few pieces of gold he left behind post death."Did Finn need to be so graphic when he designed Dragons Reborn?" I ask guiding my character farther into the cave."Yes. We're guys. We like the realism of dead things.""Hey I enjoying killing stuff as much as the next player, but I don't want to step over bodies to get my loot."I catch his headshake from the corner of my eye too worried about what else we'll find in this new cave to waste seconds looking at him. "You're such a girl, Marissa."Narrowing my eyes at the television screen, I plot my revenge for his comment and take a swipe at his character with my sword."Hey!" He tries to strike back, but I'm already halfway down the cavern tunnel."What?" I fake in

I've ridden in many taxis, but relying on them as my sole transportation over the last week has been interesting. Each one smells different, most of them not the good kind of smell. Another whiff of body odor hits me, a storm front blown back by the taxi's heater. I release another deep breath through my mouth. I'd rather not swallow any of the dirty germs from the air, but anything's better than more of the pungent stench eating away at my nose.The phone in my hand vibrates distracting me from my breathing pattern. A gag boils up and I'm forced to close my mouth quickly covering it and the bottom of my nose with my hand. The rose scented perfume I applied this morning does little to block out the powerful air.Ryland: You don't need to worry about DashD97531 anymore. I took care of him last night. You want to finish the cave this morning?I smile, but keep my mouth open and breathing on point. Seven o'clock came way too early this morning after being at Ryland's until midnight