Later

The landlady says "the old man’s lived here 'for forever,'" and because redundancy irks you, your chin drops floor-ward and a little to the right, affording your creasing left eye its familiar hiding spot in the shadow beside the bridge of your nose - a reflex that’s stuck since your mother first mentioned it. 

It made sense to move here. The rent is lower than the going rate in the city, and you love hardwood floors, anyway. Irene doesn’t live here. Irene lives in the city.

It’s 6:30 PM. You walk down the stairs to your half-filled bedroom, having opted to retire early on Night One in the New Place. You know for certain that this is a copout. You should have made the effort to meet your new roommate earlier.

And you know you knew that long before now. Even if, as the landlady had put it, "he’s quiet, doesn’t get out much," you’ve been trying to be better, more forthcoming these days. At least, you’re trying to be trying to be better.  

You will have to pee in the night. How awkward, you think, to meet a roommate like this: you imagine the old relic creeping down the stairs from his second-story bedroom, in all likelihood hoping he won’t run into you, either. And you, some common-law stranger, bathroom-bound in the dark, careening up the basement stairs and onto the shared living level. And that's when it happens: your eyes lock with his and there's no turning back. The leaves of a thirsty pothos frame a crack in the bathroom door, its frame painted an ironic red - fresh ghosts of the twenty-somethings who lived here for ages, before now.

But you live here now. Just you, and an old man. A bus headed south to the local college huffs and puffs and cranks away from the covered stop out front. 

Six years to forty, your own half-assed dabble in higher education a silly bygone blur by now, and here you are, bearing the loom of the tasteless, belated hello you chose to put off, having opted instead to chance a full-bladdered run-in in the dead of night.

You are certain this stranger deserves better - a better introduction, a better living arrangement, a better life - least of all by virtue of simply having endured time for this long.

It must be sad, you think, how he ended up living here. You imagine an old man hiding in his room while college students drink beer and play darts and crack loud, profane jokes in the living room. 

You set your alarm. Work starts at 9:00. Sometimes you like to pretend that a good night’s sleep makes you more engaged at the office. But you don’t have the bandwidth for that tonight. Your laptop cracks open and you settle in above the covers. Beside the touchpad, your right palm lurches across a film of sticky, grey muck - the dull, cloying remnant of an album sticker from a band you had so desperately wanted to love.

You check your email, open Facebook, and look up at your new ceiling, acquainting yourself with its yellowing maze of soft, rolling stucco.

Your thoughts slip back to the old man upstairs. You imagine his room - a dusty desk, white walls, an unframed photograph aged by fractured sunlight, perhaps. You assume he reads, but then, it’s just as likely he doesn’t.

You remember your sister reading in the top bunk, a blob of twisted brown hair plastered against a blue pillow case. You should read more, you know this.

Your laptop slaps shut and you close your eyes. You lay there for a while, growing slightly-to-moderately perturbed by the woody creaks and electric groans you’re about 70% certain you’ll get used to within an hour or so.

But you know damn well you won’t sleep a wink. Your laptop cracks open; relief by static blue light.

And then, you hear it. Footsteps, you’re sure. It’s him, feet above you. His pacing is slow. You can tell by the distinct absence of heel clunk that he is stepping lightly on purpose. How thoughtful, you think, with a knot in your gut.

He's in the kitchen. And under the tinny chimes of porcelain and stainless steel, muted by wooden countertop and an old man’s manners, your breath thickens and thins, thickens and thins.

A fridge door opens, a cupboard squeaks shut. The slip-sliding of chair legs across a linoleum floor. 

It feels unequivocally ritualistic, the tone of these sounds - as if the old man were baptizing the darkness with an evening snack. You imagine he’s lonely. You don’t know for sure.

You listen. You learn what you can. The faucet is on; he’s tidying up. Short, slow footsteps. Muted clinks. The floorboards hum softly as two quiet legs amble up the second-story stairs towards an old man’s bedroom.

This is your chance. You hop out of bed and creep up the basement stairs. You slide across the hall, through the red-framed bathroom door, and relieve yourself of what you can.

You finish up quickly and float back down to your room. You’ve made it, you’re safe until morning. You place your laptop on the side table and crawl into bed. You roll onto your side. You open Netflix, adjust the volume to 16, and stare into a void of static blue light until morning.

...

7:30 AM is here. There’s no way around it. You click off the alarm that wasn’t required. Best to move swiftly, to grin and to bear it. But you are listless and empty and dreading the day. You roll out of bed. At least you had the forethought to pack your slacks and work tie at the top of your duffel bag. 

You change, rub your face, and begin your long, blacked-out journey up the basement stairs.

You float to the top step and look around. No sign of life but the thirsty pathos, looking greener than yesterday against the fire truck red of the bathroom doorframe.

You turn to the kitchen, painstakingly mindful of the weight of your footfall. You tiptoe down the corridor between the table and the countertop. You stop at the kitchen sink. A damp rag, folded in half, drapes neatly beside the hot water tap; the drying rack is turned sideways, the smell of soap; a quiet, reverent kind of clean. You’ll stop for coffee on the way to work.

You slip on your shoes and you’re out the door. The fresh air slaps the red from your face. You breathe in, you breathe out, your pace quick towards your car. 

You open the door. You’ve made it. You slam the key into the ignition. 

You turn and stare at the house you moved into yesterday. White vinyl, a concrete walkway, a top floor window shedding soft, yellow light. 

You sit for a moment, and envision it clearly: It’s yesterday. You’ve just moved in. The sun is out; it’s 3:00 pm. You walk through your new doorway, through the living room and up the second-story stairs. You take a breath, stretch your arms and knock on a white bedroom door. The door opens.

You turn the key in the ignition, and glance into the rearview. It's all there, the whole picture, safe and gone behind you - that brave, easy start you chose to forgo.