Haunted By Sausages

The repulsive smell of this foul brand of sausage emanates from the frying pan for the 16th time this month. Ruining our hopes for a better tomorrow, every time we open the fridge, the packages seem to multiply. Can’t our flatmates make anything else? Quarantine in a small bedroom with no window has led us to develop unprecedented levels of restraint.

As soon as we hear the oil frying, we begin our protocol.

I run to shove a sweater beneath the crack of the door while Katarina snatches the quickly-emptying “linen and sky” air freshener. We prepare for the sweater to lose its battle as we spray some face towels with perfume (even Marc Jacobs can’t win this one). We listen to the strangely melodious yet off-putting sound of our flatmates clanging their silverware while moaning “Mmmm” as they eat the atrocity.

“Only 4 more days and we’re out of here.” Katarina mentions positively, covering her face with the towel.

In response, the wooden slats in my bed give out for the 4th time this month and the mattress (and I) plummet down.

What had unfortunately become an anticipated occurrence...

We adjust the bed while opening the same discussion for the 16th time: What are the repercussions of passive-aggressively ordering a cookbook or not-so-passively tossing the sausages off our 8th floor balcony?

My phone pings. It’s a message from the flatmates we were supposed to live with the next month. One of them is sick, so we can no longer stay with them.

Frantic, Katarina sits on her bed and opens up her laptop to search for a new place to stay. Her bed gives out, and she falls through clutching her computer.

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Fast forward to now and things have worked out pretty well. The day after discovering that we would be potentially homeless, we find a well-priced apartment by the docks for just the two of us, and we’ll be staying here for a while until it’s safe to travel again.