I remember life in that stale and small living room.  It seemed stale because the furniture was dated and the carpet always felt like it had a layer of dust over it.  It was perfectly clean, though.  I wouldn’t dare offending his mother, even if she never read this; she was diligent in her upkeep.

I specifically remember the decor that hung over a black leather sofa; gold leaves, intertwining.  It felt like a big seventies-era stamp.

His mother would get home from work and watch soaps with a giant glass of wine.  I found her to be beautiful and interesting, despite her routine existence.  She would tell me about the characters and their brief history.  I suppose if I tried very hard I could remember names and stories, but it doesn’t matter anymore.


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