Occupancy Dispute

The lighthouse had been decommissioned in 1987 and converted into a rental property sometime in the early 2000s, which meant it had exactly one bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen the size of a generous closet, and — crucially — a spectacular view of the Southern Ocean that made all of this forgivable.

Nadia had rented it for six weeks to finish her manuscript. She had arrived on Sunday.

The man on the front step appeared to have arrived on Monday.

He was tall and slightly rumpled, with the look of someone who had driven a long distance without sleeping. He had a laptop bag over one shoulder and a paper bag from the bakery in town over the other, and he was staring at the door — which Nadia had opened — with an expression of complete, uncomprehending blankness.

"I have a booking," he said.

"So do I," Nadia said.

There was a long pause. The sea offered an opinion in the form of a large wave against the rocks below.

"How long?" he said.

"Six weeks."

He closed his eyes briefly. "Same."

Nadia looked at him. He looked at her. They both looked at the one bedroom visible through the door behind her.

"There's a perfectly good option here," he said, "where one of us leaves."

"There's a perfectly good option," Nadia said, "where I show you my confirmation email and you show me yours and we sort out whose fault this actually is."

He set down the paper bag. "There are croissants in there. From the bakery in town. They're very good. I feel that's relevant to the negotiation."

Despite herself, Nadia stepped back from the door.