Staying in someone else's house alone is surreal. She is expecting this, I think. She has to. Otherwise she would take these things with her. I rifle through her closet, drawers, kitchen cupboards. Her bookcases are particularly noteworthy. I sample her perfume and unwrap fancy soaps; I take Ida off the shelf and start to read. I critique her artistic choices, and agree with almost all of them. I open one of her photo albums and it's clear that she's been to Asia. India or Thailand. I have no hope of narrowing it down, because I have not been to either one and she has not labelled her adventures. She has no need to. I'm sure she remembers where she's been.
Aside from the perfume and soaps, I've borrowed 3 eggs, a few tablespoons of butter, and I've spilled red wine on what appears to be a stain-proof couch. Very, very comfortable and forgiving, right in front of the fireplace. How lovely this place is.
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