A butterfly touch on my arm. It's Mr. Silent, the one who hasn't spoken yet. The touch leaves a residue behind, something powdery. Yeah, that's right. My arm wants to wither, but I keep it still.
Pets are fine.
A whiff of something sour and moist tickles my nose. I can taste it, this smell. The guy stares at my hand like a wart has just sprouted. The other pipes up while the silent one retreats. Move-in is first, last and a two hundred dollar deposit.