There's always a problem when I cook. My mother never let me hear the end of it for one thing. For another, I can tell her endless nagging wasn't for nothing. It's always too salty, too little pepper, too much pepper, no salt, American bread has more flavour than this, you call that cooking?

Today my dish is none of that. It's perfect, I know, because I've tasted it and it's as great as the savoury scent that emanates from the pan. And it's also the reason why my tongue is currently on fire. Definitely should have blown on it first.

I'm putting away the napkin and trying to blow on my burning tongue when the doorbell goes off, startling me and leading to the wooden spoon in my hand dropping, sauce splattering everywhere.

"Lord, what have I done to deserve this?" I mumble as I pick up the spoon and place paper towels over the mess.

The bell goes off again, this time in a continuous rhythm.

"Coming!" I rush to the door, dodging the mess and pulling the latch. The wood falls open, revealing a face I'm definitely not expecting to see.

Brown eyes stare at me behind a curtain of long, dark lashes, as black as the hair which almost kissed the shoulders of the woman in front of me. Her eyebrows furrow and she gives me a questioning look. "Aren't you going to let me in?"

"Oh, I---well..." I trail off, stepping back to allow her inside.

She enters, eyes roaming the room before meeting mine. Her upturned eyes—the same colour as her golden-brown skin—twinkle with some sort of expression I can't make out. From her looks, I pin her to be of Hispanic origin. There are thin scars that run down her cheeks in a zigzag pattern, a bit like the tribal marks some natives from my homeland are given. "You don't know who I am, do you?" she questions.

"Am I---should I know?"

Her hair bounces softly as she nods, stepping over the ledge and planting her feet in the house. "You should. I saw your ad on Craigslist about renting out a room, I'm here for that."

I almost facepalm but before I can, my hand fortunately stops in mid-air, and my mind registers the fact that traces of the spicy beef stew are on my fingers and would likely get in my eye. Someway somehow. Trust me, it's happened before.

"Oh yeah," I say, letting my hands fall. "You're coming to look at the place. Feel free."

She smiles and heads out the door, returning a few seconds later with a carry-on bag and a suitcase. Wait, is this how house tours are supposed to go?

"You... um, you brought your stuff?" I state more than I question because the bags are now on the floor of my living room.

"As you can see," she breathes out, brushing her hair back from her face when she lifts her head. "Congrats, you've gotten yourself a roommate now."

I take the hand that she extends, awkwardly shaking what feels incredibly small shrouded in mine.

"Nice," I say. "I didn't know you'd move in this soon but here you-"

The girl interrupts me. "I'm sorry it was on such brief notice. I really meant to just look around, but my family reminded me of why I ever wanted to move out and I had to get the hell away from them as fast as I could."

I laugh at that, but the way she doesn't play it off as a joke or anything makes my laughter diminish to a small sigh. I get her. It was a relief when I could wake up to a quiet house without annoying siblings screeching like banshees and parents yelling threats all the time.

"There's the kitchen." My hand points towards the cooking area I was working at. "And eh, the bathroom is down the hall and your room is two doors to the right."

She tucks her tongue in her cheek and nods as if she's making mental notes. Then the thoughtful expression disappears. "What's that smell?"

I'm confused for a moment, but I realize we shook hands, and that she's talking about the beef stew sauce that probably ended up on her fingers, because her hands stop a distance away from her nose. "I was cooking when you-"

She cuts me off. "Smells nice." Then she proceeds to sling her carry-on over her shoulder and drags her suitcase along. Her body is tilted slightly to the right and I can see she is struggling with the load. I offer to help. Well, not exactly.

I reach for the suitcase, but she stops me before my hands touch it. "I'm fine. Just go do what you were doing."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," she responds.

My head bobs up and down even though she's already moving away and won't see me. "I'm... my name is Kobby, by the way."

At that she stops and passes me a backward glance. "Never heard that before."

"It's a native name where I'm from..."

"And where's that?"

"Ghana," I provide. "It's in Africa. I lived there for just a few years. Actually, I never really liked the name because everyone mispronounced it when I came to America. It's actually short for-"

I stop short when I realize she's gone. Great.