Back from flash-back land, the first week of cohabitating with Gwyn has been going well. That is because we don’t see much of each other, I guess. She leaves pretty early in the morning and comes back by noon. I go out some time past noon and come back around six o’clock. She is usually locked inside her room, comes out around seven, gobbles something from the fridge and locks herself up again. I think the only quarters that girl uses are the bedroom and the kitchen. I can’t even vouch for her not being a robot and using the toilet, since I don’t ever see that with her room being a suite. I tried interacting with her in a friendly way, but I don’t think she knows what that means.

“Hey, Gwyn. So, about cleaning, I was thinking maybe we could call someone once every week or some fifteen days?” I was smiling.

“I don’t want strangers inside my house.” I don’t think she knows how to smile.

“Uhn… So, what…”

“I don’t really care for the house being clean or not either.” And went back into her room.

I think the most ridiculous thing a person can say to another is that they should smile at anything they say. We all have different senses of humor. Sometimes we are just not in the mood for smiling. Sometimes. Not all of the time. Not with just every and each person of the globe! And maybe, maybe, if her behavior was that bad with just me, whom she has just met, I could accept it. Think of her like a cat that is suspicious of new people. But no, she is cold even to Mike, and they are friends. I think? The other day he went by bearing gifts.

“Thomas, hey. How you doing?”

“I’m fine. And you?”

“I’m great. Are you adapting well to college?”

“Yeah, everyone is nice. And the teachers seem great.”

“Oh, they are. Say, is Gwyn home?”

“In her room.” My lips form a straight line.

“She’s been there long?”

“Nah, she does come out sometimes. To eat.”

“I’m sure she will warm up to you soon.”

He pats my shoulder and goes to her door, knocks and calls her name, she opens the door but doesn’t come out. “Hey. Granny sent some tangerines.” He hands her a basket. “How you been doing?”

“Great. Send my thanks to her.” She takes it, turns around and locks the door again.

“I don’t think she warm up to anyone, Mike.” I say more to myself than to him.

So, yeah, in retrospect, maybe the whole cohabitating with a heartless and emotionless person is not going so well…

But it’s not like there is only bad things to say about her. Even if not much of a redeeming quality, she is one hell of a cook. I don’t really see her cooking, because apparently she only does it when I’m not around, but the smell and the appearance of what she keeps on the fridge is quite amazing. Almost professional-like. However, I can’t say much about the taste. She has never offered any to me. And I could steal a bite of something, but I’m surer by the day that this girl would actually kill me for such a small offense. So thanks, but no thanks.