Live, Laugh, Regret

This room is a guest room, that I am sure of. Its walls are painted an inoffensive baby blue, the grey bed sheets are tucked in tight, and the white shaggy carpet doesn’t have a lick of stains nor indentation from pacing. If I had this carpet in my bedroom, it’d be worn to the ground. All I do is pace.

There’s little on the dresser, just a light coating of dust across the wood that envelops a jewelry stand in the shape of a woman's body. It’s blue, like the walls. So much blue. It’s like the only color that can be tolerated by everyone. I’d much rather orange, or fuschia. Make it bold. 

But enough of my preferences; I’m not perusing this house to make my own judgments. What’s more interesting is what makes it different from other houses. No, what makes the people of these houses.

I step out into the hallway where the shaggy white ends and the wooden floors begin. They stretch to the back door, which was, fortunately for me, unlocked. 

I like the game of chance when it comes to visiting other people’s homes. That’s what I call it, visiting, not trespassing as the law likes to put it. I don’t take anything, and I always make sure to lock the door behind me when I leave. I won’t even turn on a light. Nothing gets touched–I’m only here to observe. Of course the more interesting stuff is what’s hidden inside all of the nooks and crannies, but I will respect that. What’s left out is still meant for other people to see, if they live with someone. I like the chance in that, too. Once, when I first became interested in visiting, I snuck into my neighbors’ apartment in college. Laying on the couch was a block of artisan cheese and a stop street sign, pole still attached. It's the odd things like that that keep me checking doors. A whole collection of objects, of people’s lives that are completely meaningless to me but meaningful to them lie behind doors.

I never know if a door will be unlocked. I don’t watch people to figure out if their door will be open or if they are gone for holiday. No, I draw the line at stalking. 

Walking away from the back door, I approach the next doorway. It’s door is ajar, no doubt the master bedroom where the forty-something couple, that’s my guess anyway, sleeps. 

From the doorway, all I see is the bed with massive white sheets topped with braided pillows. A ship’s wheel is on the wall, hooked just below the trim on the ceiling. This room is grey, yet another tolerated room color. I wonder if the house came this way, or if the couple decided that they’d rather try to appear as bleh as possible than have any excitement in their lives. 

Two steps in, I find what I have been looking for. But what’s even better is that the objects are not hidden, but meant for display. A laugh bubbles up inside me as I take in the wall that is packed from top to bottom with wooden blocks of quotes. Many of them are the usual “live, laugh, love” Karen crap that mothers seem to like to spread around their homes. They vary in size and occasionally in shade. Not all of them are black with white text, a few are the inverse and others are a cream color with blue cursive. Those normally say something related to the sea. 

They match the rest of the room, which upon closer inspection I see sand dollar knobs on the dresser and a mirror atop a small vanity bordered by dried starfish. Which is weird, because we live in the middle of Kentucky. A past life then, or maybe a manifestation of one. Either way, these people at least have some semblance of taste. And an interesting quote collection.

I could imagine the two of them, one a blonde-bobbed Karen from the east coast and the other a balding redneck from the midwest, the two falling in love over their shared values and taste for beer. Wouldn’t be too bad of a life, but leaves a lot to be desired. Maybe she’s more of a margarita woman anyway. We’d bond well, Boston blood and all. I could have her over for a drink on my patio and we could talk about how much we miss the ocean breeze and the traffic on the bridge from tourists. Maybe she drives like a Mass-hole as well.

My little fantasy moves into purgatory as I find a picture frame sitting on the nightstand in the corner. What I find is now the new most-interesting item in the house, and surprisingly also not one meant to be hidden. It is two women kissing, both in flowing, white gowns. Their hands are stretched towards the camera, clasped, two rings winking, barely in focus.

I blink a few times and realize my hand has clamped onto my wrist. I let go, and breathe deeply. An indent is left on my skin, my own ring, though only a promise rather than a symbol of eternal binding, having turned itself around and dug the diamond into my flesh. I’m still not accustomed to it; I prefer chunkier jewelry, well not when I am visiting but in real life. In reality, I enjoy tight clothes and earrings that make my ears droop. I wear chunky, red glasses without prescription. I like heels that sparkle. In real life, I’m a young woman in love with a man from college who would do anything to please me. Who believes he loves every part of me. But he doesn’t know that I sneak into–no, visit–other people’s houses, and that when I’m walking downtown for a cup of coffee I like to flirt with the waitress who always pours my cup. She’ll lean in close from behind me to pour the coffee, ask me what I’m writing for my next article, impress me with some new fact she’s read from the philosophy textbooks she bought for ten cents each from a library sale. She likes zebra print, too. But I only know that because I went to her house when she was gone to see her family back home. It wasn’t like I knew it was her house–she never gave me her address. Her memorable item was a zebra-patterned leotard, balancing on the back of a door on a hanger.

It was hard, not telling anyone about the butterflies in my stomach the first time we had a real conversation. A month into our daily routine, I almost asked her to go to a different coffee shop with me, or maybe that little bakery a city over that has delicious cheesecake. But then work became busy and my schedule changed. The coffee shop opened later in the day. And, to be truthful, I wouldn’t have known if we were friends, or if my offer would’ve been a date.

My hands are on the frame as I become light-headed. The plain, grey wall stares out at me now, and I swallow. My thumb subconsciously spins my ring so the jewel is facing upright, and I remember the rich taste of chocolate cake that I ate with him the night he gave it to me at an Italian restaurant. He held my hand and it felt reassuring. Like he knew I wasn’t sure. 

I carefully put the picture back upright. I realign it with the slight outline of dust on the table. Their faces appear like a fuzzy memory to me, unreachable and unimportant. He’s waiting for me back home, no doubt. It’s Chinese takeout tonight, my favorite. I could call him on my way home, tell him to order it so I can pick it up for the both of us. My feet are already at the back door, the house no longer a world I can only look at and not live in, but rather a place to get through. 

The door clicks as I shut it and the breeze from the night blows wisps of hair into my mouth. I spit them out quietly, and make my way to the sidewalk. A single street light is on, illuminating the corner I turn to go downtown. Towards the coffee shop and the Chinese restaurant. Towards her house. It would be so easy to do it. To just go.

But my hand is already dialing his number, and my stomach growls for orange chicken.