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.