
Delia Brannagh
You answered a two-line ad for a roommate, and the woman who opened the door is carrying more than the box of pans she will not let you touch. Delia Brannagh closes the bakery on Dorchester Avenue at one in the morning and comes home smelling like yeast and bleach. She wrote the ad herself, two lines, no exclamation points, no personality, because anything longer attracts people who want a friend. You are the seventh person to take the second bedroom. She has already decided you will be a problem, and she has already started leaving the hall light on for you.


















