When signing up to live with ten complete strangers, you know you’re in for a mixed bag. Sometimes you get the guy who’s named Spike and only dates goth girls and hides a python in his room, and sometimes you get that girl who registers your house on couchsurfers.net without asking anybody so your house is always full of strange Swedish men. And sometimes you get lucky. Edgar is my 24-year-old Colombian housemate. He speaks stilted English (he says things like “I want to read you” when he means “I want to read your stuff that you write about. I ask about it because I’m thoughtful and nice”). He’s trying to improve my Spanish (and so far thinks it’s cute and not annoying when I mess up). He can say the word “beautiful” without sounding like a douchenard because people who speak romance languages have it down to an art (the other day he was trying to say the color red looked nice on me, and ended up with “You do red. It’s beautiful.”). He even insisted on giving me spaghetti one night because he had extra. When I refused, he raised an eyebrow and, clearly confused, asked, “You don’t like pasta?” And of course I had to say “No, I love pasta” because who doesn’t love pasta? Then we ate lunch together and I swooned over the marinara.
He’s also unintentionally hilarious. The other night he was telling me about his frustrating experience shopping at Target. “I was trying to get blankets for my bed, and I went up to the lady and said ‘I need shits on my bed’ and she was shocked that I said I needed shits! I kept saying, ‘Shits, shits, I need shits on my bed’ and she was upset I kept saying shits. And finally I said, ‘I need pillows and blankets and shits’ and she went ‘Ohhh. Here we say sheeeeets’ and I nodded and said ‘Yes, shits.’” It was love at first shit. I mean sight.
The next couple weeks, I would put forth extra effort to look nice on Thursday evenings, since that was usually the time I bumped into Edgar. Every time I thought I heard him I would make sure my hair wasn’t its usual rat’s nest, apply some makeup, and casually sashay into the kitchen only to find Spike huddling over some burnt oatmeal. I would glare at him and trudge back to my room. This occurred for a couple of weeks until I gave up hope (for what, I don’t know. I guess that Edgar would finally realize I was attractive when my hair was brushed). One Sunday night at one in the morning, I tore my crusty eyes away from my Netflix marathon and crawled out of bed. I hadn’t showered in a day, my hair was unkempt and greasy, and I looked like I had just crawled out of a coffin after being buried alive. I slunk into the kitchen to make a fried egg, because I have absolutely no self esteem. OF FUCKING COURSE as soon as this happens, Edgar walks into the kitchen…followed by an attractive and put together woman. Edgar grinned. “Oh, hello! Pincha, this is Carly. Carly, this is my girlfriend Pincha.” I smoothed out my hair and hiked up my stained sweatpants. “Hi.” And with that Edgar and Pincha (who was wearing real pants and had clearly recently showered) went upstairs, no doubt to have amazing, hygienic sex. I face-palmed, then had a reasonably enjoyable night stuffing my face and watching Friday Night Lights until 3 AM. You win some, you lose some.