Big Dump

Spur of the Moment 9

Thom is in France.

It feels strange to drive to his place, knowing that the lights are out and the house is cold, but I’m giddy to some extent, as I am always on this road.
I park, the gravel rustling loudly in the looming twilight, get out of the car and walk up the porch, fingering the small key in my pocket.
Inside the air greets me coldly and the walls watch my every step as I make my way to the light switch. I’m alien here, they whisper in my ear, I’m not to make the floorboards creak, I’m not to walk upstairs to dare a look at his study, I’m not to open his cupboards. But I keep my head up and walk without masking the sound of my footsteps and the walls fuss around me, and I imagine them heaving with discontent.
I take off my jacket and fling it unceremoniously on the sofa, and I water his plants whilst whistling quietly. I check the basement, where he keeps his instruments, and I stroke his guitar lightly, hit a few notes on the piano.
Then I stand in front of the staircase leading to the second floor and stare into the soft dark. I don’t dare to switch on the light when I’m there and glide silently through the bluish darkness, catching a hint of murky sky in the window of the guest room. Then I reach his bedroom and feel a pang of softness. “Thom,” I think, walking inside and sitting at the foot of his bed, my palms flat against the duvet, my head turned to look at the window. This is what he sees every time he wakes up, I think, and the room grumbles with jealousy around me. I close my eyes and think of Thom, see his ghost walking in the house, hear him rummage at the kitchen, climb up the stairs and enter the bathroom, the sound of the shower distant, I hear him humming lightly while dressing for the day, and I smile dreamily at the pad of his bare feet in the basement at night.

The wind weeps outside and the house creaks and grumbles, and Thom is walking along the far away shore.

I leave more discreetly, as a conqueror at the sundown, and the empty house stares into my back hopelessly. I step down the porch and look at it, so stoic and arrogant earlier, meek and defiled at present. I place my hand on the banister and keep it there for a little while, in a promise of coming back.