I overturned the little metal band-aid tin that had been serving as my ‘secret’ coin stash only to see a stream of nickels and dimes pour out into my hand. “Goddamnit, Tim,” I mumbled angrily to myself while shuffling the coins back into their container.

At the start of the semester, I figured out that my new roommate, Tim, is a compulsive change-thief. Well, I guess he isn’t a ‘thief’ exactly. Tim takes the quarters out of my change stash and replaces them with an equal value of nickels and dimes. While in his mind he feels this is a perfectly acceptable thing to do, he just doesn’t understand why I get so incensed over the unwitting transaction.

”Nickels and Dimes are useless, Tim!” I shout condescendingly every time he tries to defend his actions. “The washers and dryers only take quarters, dumbass. How am I supposed to do my laundry?!”

But Tim is the dumb, pretty type. Well, he’s the dumb, pretty, and terribly self-absorbed type. So getting through to him on this matter is pretty much an uphill battle that I’m just not willing to fight. Rather, I have taken to hiding my quarters in various vessels and containers about the room, hoping to keep my stash protected. But, evidently, he’s figured me out this week and found the not-so-empty Band-aid tin that I’d tucked away in my shower caddy.

I finished returning the rest of the loose change into its tin and tossed it into the tattered, little, blue laundry basket sitting on the folding table in the center of the room. I spun around toward the door and let out a heavy sigh that was redirected upward into my angle-swept bangs by my outwardly jutting, pouty, lower lip.

I stood there for a moment, trying to cool down and survey my options. I could always go plug the nickels and dimes into the vending machine in the third floor kitchen in hopes that the coin return would replace them with quarters. Or I could run down the street to the Quick-Stop and ask them to change it for me.

While debating these two options, Ken walked in carrying a big olive green duffel bag. I watched with marked interest as his thick, veiny, biceps pumped and squeezed beneath the huge, square shoulders supporting the thin straps of his white wife-beater as he forcefully jostled free the contents of his laundry bag onto the folding table. “How ya doin’? ” he asked while separating his whites and coloreds.

“I’m alright, I suppose,” I responded wryly, noting the tiny slivers of gold segmenting his emerald green irises. “My roommate cleaned me out of change though. You don’t happen to have any extra quarters, do you?”

“Oh sure,” he responded, plopping a soft-ball sized draw-string bag down on the table with a jingling thud. “Several of the guys from the team get together on Thursday nights and play poker for change. I cleaned house this week!”

“God, you’re a lifesaver!” I exclaimed, reaching over and delicately planting my palm on his firm, furry, forearm. The action was involuntary and as soon as I’d realized what I’d done, I snatched my own hand back quickly and began removing my clothes from the basket. Ken hesitated briefly, obviously noting the awkwardness of the moment. “Um, I’m gonna use this washer over here but those two are free, I believe,” I stammered, pointing to the rusty little white machines lined up against the wall adjacent