Your house has taken to me. Everything is in its place. The trash has been trashed, the clothes I washed have been folded, another set sits in a neat pile atop the machine, waiting to be washed and sun dried. All the ashtrays have been emptied, the de-humidifiers are collecting moisture as we speak, and the floors are so clean I can finally walk barefoot across the surface. I rolled the windows of the front seat of your Gypsy just about an inch so it can breathe, and I’m pleased to report there isn’t an ounce of moisture, in fact, it smells exactly as it does in dry weather, the faint scent of rubber and foam. No walls are leaking, the balcony drain is unclogged and in a state of readiness, should it rain. All the dishes are clean and gleaming. There’s fresh milk in the fridge, and fresh bread, and eggs, and butter, and the ice-trays in the freezer have been refilled with water.
All that’s missing right now is you, and single malt slipped over blocks of ice. And a simple meal spread across the table, and your feet tapping to this luscious music, and my fingers stroking your wrist as you delicately rummage through my palm, feeling the lines it contains, the songs inscribed within their texture and the promise of happiness that they assure.
I’ll think of you at night, when I say my prayers and fade into sleep, and in the morning, when I wake up blissful, despite your absence, and bask in the expanse of your bed. And I’ll wish the same wish I’ve been wishing since I started to house-sit. I’ll wish I lived here too.
Maybe I already do.
