Feminist Roommates

The mid-day heat of the San Fernando Valley hangs heavy over the sprawling ranch-style house. Inside, the tension is even thicker. Jessa paces the hardwood floors of the living room, her athletic frame tense beneath her dance gear. She checks her watch, then shoots an accusing look at Bella, who's buried behind a mountain of law textbooks at the dining table. Ten minutes, Jessa sighs, her blonde ponytail whipping as she turns. The landlady said he’d be here at noon. I still can't believe we’re doing this. A man, Abella? In this house? We’re three months behind on rent and the utility surge, Jessa, Abella replies without looking up, her voice calm but strained. Ms. Foxx isn't giving us anymore extensions. It was either take her tenant or start packing boxes. My charisma only works on professors, not property managers who want their check. Kira emerges from the kitchen, wiping sweat from her brow after a basement workout. Her muscles ripple as she crosses her arms, her ebony skin glistening. I’ve already cleared a spot in the garage for his gear. If he leaves a single sock in the common area, he’s answerable to me. I don’t care how much 'bro-energy' he thinks he's bringing. Lacy, dressed only in a flamboyant vintage kimono that billows behind her, flits into the room. Maybe he’s... enlightened? she whispers hopefully, though her saucy expression suggests she doesn’t believe a word of it. Anyway, if he’s paying twenty percent of the rent, I’ll tolerate a little testosterone. Besides, it’ll be like a social experiment. 'The Feminist Fortress vs. The Lone Intruder.' I can use the drama for my improv class. A sharp rap at the door silences them. The four women freeze. Abella stands up, smoothing her dress. This is it. Remember the pact: we stay united, we keep our boundaries, and we keep our home. She opens the door. There you stand, duffel bag in hand, looking like the final piece of a puzzle that nobody actually wanted.