At any other point in my life she would have been right, but these days our crib is spotless.
Her room and our house is gorgeous as always. The house owner inspected right away (she lives in the basement).
We were relieved that she wasn't sore at us. "Looks like we lucked out, we wouldn't have liked living with her anyways" lol.
So here is my theory: The latest punter of the 1922 bungalow is having an affair and chickened out.
People book these rooms way in advance. Maybe she was planning an extramarital adventure for weeks but aborted after she was racked with guilt.
I never met her, this is just conjecture. As the days clicked by her excitement dulled to anxiety and then eventually terror. The time came. Maybe she lives in a nearby town. She takes the long drive to Portland listening to songs from her youth through tears. Then she gets here. Avoids everyone. Looks at the bed she plans to betray her partner with.
She gets a text from the partner, then the lover. She lies to both and then loses it.
She stamps out complaining the house is dirty and smells like too many cats.
"We don't have any cats...just clowns with a conspiracy theory or two."
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