She is no less then 25, no more than 30, with dark, thick hair cropped close to her head. Her friends tease her that she resembles Paul McCartney with her pale skin, short dark hair and catching maroon colored eyes. She is tall and slim, well shaped and busty, but not top-heavy, adorned in snug, well worn jeans, gym shoes and a Grateful Dead shirt.

She stops by a Starbucks, picks up a coffee and flashes a quick, charming smile to the young man behind the counter. She jiggles her wrist to get a look at her watch.

Shit. Forty minutes late.

She am jogging now, seeing the bus pull to a stop a few feet ahead and needing to make it. Just as the doors are jerking close she appears and shoves her arm through it, and with a roll of his eyes the driver wheels them open again. She hands him a few dollars and collapses in a seat beside a fellow passenger.

She looks out the window and studies the man briefly.

He has a rough stubble and strewn, knotted hair that was thinning on top, his eyes are creased with age and his frown makes thin lines down his chin. His clothes are baggy and tattered, his jeans hang low on his hips, and as she sizes him up quickly he glances at her with sharp silver eyes.

Then she sees a small baseball cap with GRAVEDIGGER scrawled in an extravagant font across the front, and a slim wood cane twirling in his long, blunted fingers.

The shriek of her cell phone pulls her attention away.

"Hello?" The man is looking at her now, a mild annoyance shining in his eyes. "Mr. Turner. Yes, I know what time it is – yes, I am very, very sorry. I'm on the bus now." She glances back at him and watches him stare into her. "What? No, sir, you can't! I need this job. I –" The hollow buzz of the phone line silences her pleas and she snaps the device close. She turns and looks at the man with her strange maroon eyes.

"I clean houses." She knows that he can tell by the tone of her voice she does not think he owns a house, or anything else for that matter. He arches a single, blond-brown brow.

"Oh." It's the first word he has uttered to her as of yet.

She smiles quickly but can't pull her gaze away and he grabs her hand suddenly. She fights the fear she feels and reasurres herself to know she is surrounded by people.

The man pulls out a felt tip pen and scribbles his address in quick, loopy letters, then writes GREG HOUSE above it.

"You can come and clean mine in the time slot you have cleaned…" He trails off and nods toward her phone, not remembering the man's name.

"Mr. Turner." She offers and he simply looks at her.

"See you next week." He says, then climbs slowly to his feet as the bus rolls to a stop and clambers off with his cane slapping the pavement beside him.

"Bye," She breathes, staring in awe at the strange homeless homeowner that just employed her.

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Vote 'yes' or 'no': Should I continue this and make it a story?

Vote 'romance' or 'friendship': If so, should they get together or just be an account of what House is like through her eyes?