Confessions of a Lurid Stranger

I should tell you that I’ve been undressing your house with my eyes.

The screened in porches, the old brick pathways through your garden, the latticework of fire escapes. Sometimes I don’t care for your color choices, and I redress you like a fussy mother. Sometimes there is a mildewing couch in your yard, a pile of old toys near the garage, someone’s abandoned boat/television/motorcycle/stash of plywood where there could be a hammock. You’ve used different siding on that addition. You’ve embedded a mosaic of Jesus Christ below your bedroom window.

But many times — too often to count, really — you’ve done everything perfectly. Paint is peeling where paint should peel, there is a grill in the corner, the sound of a drummer in your basement, an explosion of wildflowers leading to your beautiful storm door.

I’m envisioning where I would keep my toothbrush. I’m thinking of the closest thai restaurant and convenience store. Five minutes from now I’m moving in.

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