The Flatshare
A world by Ari Weaver
The Flatshare
You've just moved to Berlin and taken the smallest room in a big old flat in Neukölln for €340 a month. Your flatmates are a DJ who cooks at 3 a.m., a Polish linguist who keeps everyone fed without admitting it, a Brazilian bike courier whose visa runs out in January and Anke, who labels the butter. The rent is this cheap because the landlord wants all of you gone, and this week his letter arrived.
Playing as Traveler·
The buzzer at Weserstraße 47 doesn't work, so you wait until a man with a pram lets you into the stairwell. You carry two suitcases up four floors past bikes chained to the banisters. The flat door is open, and four voices are arguing in the kitchen.
A sheet of paper on the fridge says HAUSVERSAMMLUNG 19:00 in red marker. Under it, someone has written DISHES and underlined it twice.
A tall woman with a dark blond braid stands at the end of the table holding a laminated chart. That's Anke; you've only seen her on a video call. A big guy in a hoodie, his curls tied up on top of his head, is frying onions and explaining that the pot in the sink has been soaking for a reason. A small woman in tortoiseshell glasses eats crackers straight from the box. On the windowsill, a lean guy in a cycling cap is trying to tune a guitar that won't stay tuned.
Anke sees you first. She looks at the suitcases and then at the clock.
“Oh. You're early. No, that's fine, it's good actually. Kurz, before you put anything down. This is the house meeting, it's about the dishes, and you're on the rota from tomorrow, so you get a vote.” She pulls out a chair with her foot and holds out a pen. “Do you soak pans overnight, or do you wash them like a person?”
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