It is strange to talk to her now that the rubble has turnt to dust and the aftermath is nothing but a late night rerun.1
We are not friends. She is boring and irrelevant and I don't think about her. or miss her. Ever.2
But sometimes I miss the house. Despite what happened there. I miss the senity of the beige. The dull colors that fit my generalized angst. I miss the VH1 music videos and the two cream couches and the loveseat. I miss the space underneath and on top of the pool table, and the white beadspread, and the turning stairs. But I don't relate it to anything that happened there.3
And I don't think about it. Ever.4
Author notes
ahh. so glad I can close that whole chapter forever. I've immortalized the end of that drama in this little thing. it feels good to be done with it.
What did you think? Please comment!
Comments
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thanks, though I wouldn't say I love the house, just fascinated with certain things about it
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This is really good. It seems like you really did love that house but would give it up if it meant staying there with that person whom you were speaking of.
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