Elisa knew she couldn't trust them because of how she found her toothbrush the first morning.

 

Elisa's new housemates had an aversion to makeup brushes. The mirrored cabinet above the bathroom sink was covered in foundation smears. Featureless splotches of face tacked onto the front and concentrating around the line down the middle, like bacterial colonies clustering on agar.

 

Elisa had arrived late, the previous night. It was raining, so she took a taxi with her case. She'd found a 9m2 room, only €580 for the month, paid to the lady who ran the cordonnier below, in cash, but she hoped to stay in Paris longer. Elisa was lucky to have found her and her case a room. She had friends, she'd find a more permanent place soon. She didn't need to be smitten.

 

Following her day of travels, she freshened up. Elisa was careful not to store her expensive face creams in the communal bathroom. Her toothbrush would be safe in the cabinet, though.

 

Drying off her hands, she closed the cabinet, turned off the light, and crossed the hall to her room. There was a lamp and a mattress on the floor. She slipped under the covers without checking for bed bugs.

 

Elisa had three interviews scheduled the next day. It was important that she looked clean and presentable. Elisa didn't bump into her housemates whilst getting ready, perhaps at work already. She stood over the sink and turned on the tap, trying not to catch her puffy morning face in the mirror. She was careful not to touch too much of the door as she opened it, to find her toothbrush standing at a different angle to how she'd left it. No–surely–could they–

 

Elisa's first interview was beside Place des Vosges. She had moved from Bruges to Paris to be a painter – portraits. The best place to start, naturally, was selling other people's paintings. The work of an art seller is bit like identity theft, and could perhaps be compared to thieving a toothbrush.

 

The park was bruised, like a face caught in the middle of changing over its features. Last week of October, Le Marais had never looked better in orange. Her interview was above a gallery which housed wire figure sculptures. She managed to smile, get through the pleasantries, not think about her new flatmates' saliva smothering her gums before they'd made their introductions.

 

Elisa returned to one housemate slouched in the doorway, irritated and with a cigarette in hand. Her foundation needed blending more down her neck. Elisa didn't stare.

 

‘This man's here for you.' ‘Got a caller already, hein,' Another girl lingered behind her, hunting in twos.

 

Elisa stepped past them into the hallway, to find the Wi-Fi man in her room. The housemates leaned past the threshold with prying necks. ‘Why'd you lock it, hein,' ‘Don't trust us?' There was a problem, the fibre box was in the basement, he'd have to come back another day. Elisa didn't stare at his work boots next to her bedsheets.

 

Elisa had already made evening plans.

 

She met Michelle at a bar in Belleville. Elisa tried to relax, remember the feeling of falling in love with Paris en été. Fool herself – it's the same place, just with different features, not permanent changes, like a different shade of lipstick.

 

‘They used your what? I'm sorry, but that's really gross.' Michelle sipped her merlot, lit another cigarette.

 

‘Can I have a drag?'

 

Michelle raised an eyebrow at Elisa, ‘Ma belle, you don't even have to ask.'

 

It was late when she returned. Elisa heard her housemates giggling and slamming doors as she turned the key. She pretended it had jammed long enough for them to lock themselves away before she entered.

 

Elisa had cereal for breakfast the next day. She found a mug in one of the kitchen cupboards. Elisa sneezed into the fridge, looking for milk. Flu season. She ate sitting on the floor in the dust, like a cockroach before it is discovered hiding in its den, slurping spoons of cereal and lumpy milk from a dirty mug.

 

‘Haven't seen you in ages.' Michelle was mid-chew. 

 

‘The gallery's been making me stay late.'

 

‘To do what, I've seen the price they go for, surely you only have to sell like–one a year.' She tried to unstick a bead of cinnamon from between her teeth.

 

Elisa thought about which detail would be the focal point in Michelle's portrait. Probably her mouth.

 

‘Look, actually, I gotta go finish a painting,' Elisa got up from the table, leaving a half-drunk coffee behind.

 

The apartment was quieter during the day. She opened the door, dropped her shoes on the rack, tiptoed to the kitchen. Elisa swung the fridge door open with rehearsed efficacy, reached past the bottles, which clinked, pulled out a small ceramic butter dish, placed it on the table.

 

Elisa had not realised her housemates were back, early, that day. This was a break from their usual routine.

 

‘What the,' They broke into the kitchen, mouths wide open at Elisa talking to a furry creature spawning across the table, sketching in her notebook. Was it – making googly eyes at her?

 

Her housemates swiped at the creature, and it fell onto the floor. Elisa looked up at them and blushed. They slammed the door when they left.

 

Elisa woke up the next morning, trying to forget the incident. Her month wasn't up just yet, but had proven long enough to form an attachment, and to know not to store her toothbrush in the cabinet above the sink. Elisa trundled her expensive face creams and toothbrush over to the bathroom and balanced them on the side of the sink, squeezing face wash into her palm and running the tap. She worked it into a lather, before looking up into the mirror to work it into her skin.

 

Elisa screamed.

 

She was missing a nose.

 

Her housemates were late to work, that morning. These occupants took a fancy to breaking from routine. They piled into the bathroom to mock their nose-less housemate. Elisa's work was not inspired by Picasso, but perhaps growing a peculiar muse is a lesson an aspiring artist could have done with learning earlier.

 

‘Well, we thought, since you can find a muse for your art so quickly in this city, you won't have a problem looking again, without a nose.' ‘Because you can't be painting that thing, not in our kitchen.' ‘Hideous, hein,' They laughed, and Elisa's eyes turned red.

 

Housemates willing to steal a toothbrush are more than capable of swiping a nose in the night.

 

Back from work, that night, Elisa took her revenge. She swabbed the mirrored cabinet, placing it in the centre of the fridge. Elisa moved quickly, as to go unnoticed, then returned to bed. In the morning, she waited for their screams.

 

‘This is not happening!' Elisa ran to the kitchen to find her housemates tangled in a web of E. coli monster.

 

‘Fancy yourselves so much, be my muse instead.' Elisa watched as the newer, bigger, better foundation-monster had them snarled up in an expressionist mess in the kitchen.

 

The starter she'd already colonised in the fridge acted as catalyst. Strawberry plants do something similar to create their offspring. Elisa's actions were nothing untoward. She had moved to Paris to try a make it as an artist – portraits. The first step in becoming something is to act as though you already are. She'd been told over and again; artists were freaks.

 

‘Don't worry, the smell won't bother me, and I prefer to paint without brushes, too.'

 

Nose-less Elisa pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and set to work painting her two models, as the monster infected their skin and new offshoots began to sprout from their limbs.

 

She texted the landlady to say she'll be needing to extend her lease another month.