Scott was our landlord. He was
the one I met when I showed up for a walk-through of the one-bedroom duplex,
and he reminded me of a lot of all the other men I had met who had a goatee and a
rotating collection of stained basketball shorts. He noticed the area code of my cell phone and mentioned that he used to live in Alaska, in Eagle River.
“But I’ve lived all over,” which also included his favorite, California. His
email address included the phrase Blues Bum. He told me he was a good judge of character.
But
also, Kim was there when we moved in. Not exactly, but she was “around” and so
were the puppies, dainty little Yorkie mixes that smelled and looked more like
downy, floppy hamsters. Kim adored the puppies as well as the older, far uglier
dog that had birthed them. She had a sweet face and a good recipe for
coffee cake. She seemed to love Scott and doubt him in equal measure.
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