My Roommate Might Be a Time Traveler (But He's Really Bad At It)

The sock incident first tipped me off that Mark wasn't just awkward but possibly adrift in the cosmic laundry cycle of time—lost between the spin and rinse of centuries like a rebellious sock that refuses both its mate and the drawer that awaits it. There in our living room, he hunched over a holey athletic sock with the reverence of a medieval monk transcribing sacred texts. He dabbed at it with something fibrous and menacing—nettle, according to his solemn declaration, "foraged with respect for the hedgerow," a phrase that hung in the air with all the practical relevance of a snowflake in the Sahara.

I waved my bright plastic sewing kit at him, a neon phoenix of modern convenience. "Mark. We have thread. Actual thread."

His gaze drifted somewhere beyond our walls, beyond perhaps our century, before clicking back like a camera lens struggling to focus on the too-near present. As if he needed to translate my words from Sanskrit or the guttural utterances of prehistoric man. "Ah, but Chloe, is it authentic thread? Spun by hands that knew the seasons, not machinery?"

That's Mark. My roommate. A man who walks through our IKEA apartment as if he's a temporal tourist who accidentally stepped off the chrono-bus in the wrong millennium. My half-serious theory—the one I didn't dare speak aloud lest it crystallize into uncomfortable truth—was Time Traveler, Defective Model. He'd drop historical oddities into conversation like a clumsy magician spilling cards ("These 'microwave ovens' haven't caused widespread mutation, have they?") but lacked any fancy tech or even basic skills from any century I recognized. Sweet Buddha on a bicycle, his attempts to blend in. After a Marvel movie: "That cinematic display was a truly... formidable depiction of righteous conflict!" His tone missed by several centuries and possibly the entire Atlantic Ocean, landing somewhere between Shakespearean soliloquy and an alien attempting human speech after studying only Victorian novels.

Weird little things kept happening, breadcrumbs of anachronism scattered across our shared existence: a tarnished pewter button appearing on our coffee table overnight, mysterious as a crop circle; quill pen ink blotting the gas bill in patterns that suggested either intense creativity or profound confusion; him insisting over lukewarm coffee that the Great Fire of London amounted to "a minor conflagration, blown out of proportion by the pamphlet industry," delivering this assessment with the casual confidence of an eyewitness. Email became "transmitting an etheric dispatch," and WiFi baffled him completely. I'd catch him by the router, muttering about "appeasing the spirits of the invisible telegraph," leaving behind that distinct smell of ozone and confusion that is the perfume of the temporally displaced.

I ignored most of it—as one does the eccentric behaviors of those with whom we share walls and refrigerator space—until the Great Groat Catastrophe hit. But that, dear friends, is a tale that requires another revolution of our small planet around its mundane star, for some stories, like certain roommates, refuse to be contained by conventional boundaries of time and narrative expectation.

We waited in "Grain Expectations," a bakery so pretentious its sourdough starter probably received mail. Mark handled payment while I stuffed our massive rye loaf into my tote. He approached the counter like someone delivering a royal proclamation. Bypassing the card reader entirely, he pulled out a worn leather pouch and emptied several dull silver coins onto the counter with an unimpressive clink.

"Good proprietor." His chest puffed slightly. "Three genuine silver groats, hard-earned."

The baker's eyebrow piercing caught the light through a dusting of flour as she stared first at the coins, then Mark, then the growing line behind us. "Um, sorry mate. Card or cash. Pounds? Sterling?"

"These ARE sterling silver!" Mark picked one up with dirty fingers. "Look at this patina! Proof of its journey through time!"

A dramatic sigh erupted behind us. Someone coughed – that special cough that means "I hate you." My face burned. "Mark—" I pushed past him, debit card thrust forward. "Put your historical pocket money away." Card tapped, bread grabbed, Mark practically dragged outside. He squinted in the sunlight, looking financially wounded. "But Chloe, the exchange rate should've worked in our favor!"

Maya and Liam showed up that night as unofficial sanity inspectors. Maya crashed onto our sofa. "Chloe. Groats. You texted me about groats. In Grain Expectations. My therapist is gonna need diagrams."

Liam, already scanning the apartment, cut to the chase. "Has he tried paying your electric bill with chickens yet? We need a system here. Maybe keep records."

"It's not just the groats!" The words erupted from me, my months of practiced patience collapsing. "It's the nettle darning! The etheric dispatches! That phrenology pamphlet by the toilet with its 'novel insights into cranial characterology'!"

Liam's eyes narrowed. He and Maya exchanged a look that needed no translation. "Operation Roommate Equilibrium Audit begins now."

They arrived the next afternoon carrying a portable whiteboard instead of their usual peace-offering snacks. Mark padded toward us in what might have been hand-spun socks, his smile open. "Ah, esteemed co-habitants! Come to engage in communal repast?"

"Not exactly." Liam positioned the whiteboard with precision while Maya uncapped a marker. "We're conducting a quick assessment of household contributions and compatibility. For optimal co-living."

Mark brightened. "A performance evaluation! My domestic contributions have proven satisfactory?"

Liam drew two columns: "Quirks (Manageable)" and "Disruptions (Requires Immediate Cessation)."

"Item one." Maya tapped the marker against the board. "Referring to pizza delivery as 'summoning flatbread victuals via arcane portal.'"

"Disruptions," Liam declared. "Confuses delivery drivers. Delays dinner."

Maya paused. "Wait—he tips well afterward. Maybe just quirky?"

"Fine." Liam wrote it under Quirks with an asterisk.

"Item two: Attempting repairs on modern clothing using..." Liam glanced my way.

"Desiccated nettle fiber," I mumbled.

"Authentic vegetal sinew!" Mark corrected.

"Disruptions." Liam wrote. "Compromises structural integrity. Potential allergen."

The list grew: "Historically accurate herbal poultices in the shared bathroom" (unanimous Disruptions); "Asking the Amazon courier if he 'bears missives from Digital Over-scribe Bezos'" (Maya labeled it 'Acutely Awkward'). Mark kept offering historical context that only dug him deeper.

The final entry: "Excavated a 'simulation of medieval sanitation facilities' within Chloe's prize-winning Echeveria Elegans planter."

Maya drew three skull-and-crossbones symbols. Mark tilted his head. "But the drainage characteristics seemed insufficient for authentic period conditions!"

Liam stepped back. The "Quirks" column contained three timid entries. The "Disruptions" column filled the board—a catalog of oddities and friction, punctuated by grinning skulls.

A strange laugh bubbled up in my throat. The absurdity hit me—not just Mark's eccentricities but my friends' bureaucratic approach to nettle socks. Mark stared at the evidence of his oddness, completely lost.

"Does this indicate a positive assessment?" he asked.

Maya inhaled, ready to pronounce sentence. I moved past her and grabbed the marker. One swipe erased her tentative "Consider Lease Reassignment?" I wrote: "Needs Constructive Outlet - Team Project?"

Three confused faces turned toward me.

"Operation Channel Mark's Anachronistic Energies starts now," I announced. "Liam, research historically plausible board games. No Black Death expansion packs." A strategic glint lit his eyes. "Maya, find historical craft blogs with non-staining, non-decaying materials." She tilted her head, considering. "I'll locate historical societies that don't require excavating my plants."

Mark's face brightened, missing every warning sign, every near-eviction signal.

"A collaborative venture! A quest!"

Maya and Liam shared a silent "what have we created?" look. I sighed. Not a solution—not even close—but watching Mark bombard Liam with questions about Hnefatafl game pieces, the problem somehow seemed worth managing.