Page 7 of Flagrant Foul
I can tell I’ve managed to offend her, so I attempt to make reparations. “Wow. I’m lucky to have found you.”
“You are,” she agrees. She walks to the elevator, presses the button several times in quick succession, and waits for the doors to open. “Come up. I’ll show you around my place, and then you can decide if you trust me with your fish.”
Something about the way she says it makes it seem more like an instruction than a suggestion, so I follow her into the elevator without asking any more questions.
“I’m Mavis, by the way,” she says as the elevator doors close, “but you can call me Mae.”
“Teddy,” I reply, extending my hand and shaking hers.
“May I call you Theodore?”
“I mean, it’s not my name, but sure. Why not.”
“In that case, I’ll try it out and see how it goes.” When the elevator comes to a stop and the doors open on the eighth floor, she points down and says, “Mind the fucking mat, dear.”
It’s one of those odd, out-of-place things that stuns me momentarily and leaves me wondering whether it really happened or if I imagined it. But no, it happened. This little old lady casually dropped the f-bomb into the conversation completely unprovoked, and now she’s acting like it’s normal. I use a little more caution exiting the elevator than I usually would, gingerly stepping onto the welcome mat laid out on the threshold.
Mae throws an eyeroll at the door across the hall and leans in conspiratorially. “It’s the Thompsons. Obsessed withimproving the tone of the building, they are. Their words, not mine. Never mind the fact that it’s a tripping hazard. Or that it’s ugly as fuck.”
“D-do you say fuck a lot?” I ask stupidly.
Her cheeks bunch in a sweet smile. “I do, dear. I believe in it. Did you know that on average, people who cuss a lot live five years longer than those who don’t?”
“I-I didn’t know that.”
“Well, that’s because I just made it up, but it could be true. It’s probably true. Actually, I’m quite sure it’s true. You can quote me on it if you’d like.”
“Thanks,” I say as she unlocks her door and pushes it open.
Her apartment is a riot of color. It’s painted a sunny yellow from floor to ceiling with an excess of bright cushions and crocheted blankets on the couches. There’s a timber cabinet in the dining area with mismatched teacups and saucers and a beaded curtain screening the door to the kitchen. On the opposite wall, there’s an enormous tropical fish tank filled with tetras, danios, mollies, and cherry barbs. The tank is a beast. The aquascape is impressive. Driftwood, rocks, and plants have been expertly arranged to give the tank a mystical feeling. Moody lighting hits water and glass and refracts, casting shards of blue and green light across the room.
It's clear at a glance that Mae wasn’t kidding. She might well be more of a fish enthusiast than I am.
She motions for me to take a seat on the couch and disappears behind the beaded curtain. When she returns, she hands me a cookie and a shot of tequila.
Her features are arranged in an expression that’s dead serious, but just beneath the surface, there’s a flicker of humor in her eyes that can’t possibly be missed.
I sit back and chuckle. “You’re not like other grannies, are you, Mae?”
“That depends on what you think other grannies are like.”
“I think they’re normal.”
“Normal is overrated, dear.”
We take a bite of our cookies and chew silently. When we’ve both swallowed, she raises her shot glass to me and takes a small sip of tequila. I do the same.
“So, tell me about this fish of yours.”
“Well, his name’s Ragnar and he’s a lovely boy. Obviously very beautiful and rather high-strung as a result.” Mae dips her head earnestly. “He’s very happy as long as everything goes his way. He likes human company.Hatesother fish.”
“Mm-hmm.” Mae nods again and gets up, taking the blanket from the couch she was sitting on. “Okay, so here’s what I’m thinking,” she says, walking to the fishtank and holding a corner of the blanket in each handwith her arms stretched out wide. “I stand like this when you bring his tank in, so he can’t see my fish. We can keep him in the kitchen. The light’s good in there and I’m in and out all day, so he won’t be lonely, and most importantly, he’ll never suspect he’s in a home with other fish.”
Perhaps it’s the tequila, but for some reason, it touches me deeply that Mae is prepared to go to such lengths to make Ragnar feel at home. My anxiety has been terrible since Leyton moved out. I’ve been sleeping badly and feeling like a massive asshole for owning a pet when I travel so much for work, but now, for the first time in days, I feel lighter.
This could work. Mae knows her stuff. The apartment is nice and looks safe. Ragnar will be in good hands. On top of all that, it means I don’t even have to find a new roommate. I can finally have my place to myself.
Talk about winning.
