There is a hallway. Long, dusty, coated in dog hair. To my left the washer and dryer rumbling in unison. A banging from the mop propped up against the door to the washer to keep it shut. Water drips from the side nonetheless. Up ahead there is a room to the left. Crown molding, a glowing white, leads along the ceiling and within. In this room, a harp, never played, half constructed with Styrofoam pieces and the instruction manual at its side. Opposite this room is the kitchen, covered in the remnants of food, covered in the remnants of a small party (five people, small talk, big talk, a guitar none of them could play, a little hookah and a couple awkward moments with the mention of some attorney’s fees), a steady stream of ants into a crack between some tile, between some grout. A window lets some light into this room, the sound of street, pavement washed over in dead leaves and run off from a recent rain.

Connected to the kitchen is a tiny dining room covered in boxes, half of them open, half only half open, most closed, unmarked. He is either too busy to unpack or he simply likes to relish the transitional period of his life. A few marked boxes, we have “Housewarming gifts” “Pens, etc” “Anniversary Photos” -- there is no evidence of him having a wife. The table in this room is something of an antique, handcrafted and perfectly round, completely forgettable. He seems the same, though his space seems to speak of a controlled repression -- simple, yet dwelled up, dwelled in, all encompassing but then tactfully forgotten. I have only met him once, but he is not part of this memory. Only his things. As some would have it, only what defines him as an individual.

In an room offset from the entrance (though certainly not the living room -- let’s call it the drawing room) a stereo. The biggest stereo you can have without stereos being your “thing”. It sits alone in this room. The presets -- NPR -- and that’s it. Across from this room, past the welcome mat, past the front door, is the living room. An old Labrador Retriever sits on the floor, a wavy dirty blond. He is bored. Not asleep, but watching me. Not worried, he knows me, maybe even likes me, but is too tired to bother with me. Beside him, a guitar, electric, black and brown, an expensive brand, propped up. It looks like it’s rarely played. I try it a little, mess around with the amp and then get scared I might’ve broken something, putting it all back the way I found it. Beside this, an upright bass. This, I’m more familiar with. I play a couple notes, and then my eyes drift to the house across from his, through his window, their window, their home. The washer and dryer both stop.

In a fleeting moment of silence, I can hear this other house. I can hear kids playing, a few strangers talking. Wind blowing. The Lab gets up and walks down the hall, I can hear his claws tacking away. I hear a TV, a cartoon. Thinking about it now, maybe he and I are similar, we are both transitional, though we hold onto the feeling in different ways. I hold onto this thought, this seemingly useless information, this moment in a strange home surrounded by a stranger’s things, things that should have absolutely no meaning, but create for me a scene, a feeling I can’t shake, that compels me to think more than that which is created for that sole purpose.