#26: Her Place

"God, I never bring people here."

By comparison, my apartment and any of my friends' houses were sparse if not empty.

Her house was small, full of windows, creaky hardwood floors, floor lamps, and shelves on every wall in the first two rooms. They were filled with books in one room, and vinyl records in another. She had a turntable that looked brand new with a large stereo system.

"I'll just be a second," she said, slipping down the hall.

It was a singular experience to see the records, arranged alphabetically, in the cubby-shelves. I looked under "S" and found Spiritualized and put on Pure Phase. The slippery strings rang around the room in the opening track. I picked up a picture from the table next to me; it was her, younger, with her father, the photo yellowed with that 70s wash.

"You live with your parents?" I called out to her room, picking up other pictures. There wasn't one that I could find of her over 15, not one that was of anyone besides her and her parents.

"No. Well, no."

I paced the room, looking at the records, looking at the pictures.

A desk, covered in pictures and dust stood out, made an impression, and I felt a void standing there.

I stood, looking at the desk. She came over.

"When did they die?" I asked.

"When I was 17."

I saw in her eyes the distance of stars. I felt her heart beating in her fingertips.

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