The key still fit the lock. It went in smooth and he held it in place, held it in anticipation, like the house wasn’t empty, like it would not let him in, like it would reject it as it had before.

But that didn’t happen.

He still took his time turning the lock, looking around to ensure others weren’t watching. If anyone was, what would they think? Even those who might question could only see a man at a front door, one to which he had the key.

They wouldn’t see the slight shock the locks hadn’t been changed. They wouldn’t see the pang of nervousness in his hands, not on his face but in the eyes and he blanked out on the door as a flash of memories went by in the time it takes to realize you’ve paused too long.

He quietly opened the door, stepped inside and used his back to close the door, slowly and with care to avoid noise. Then he waited, watched and listened. The house didn’t betray him, holding just as silent in the sunlight.

It was the only source of light, but he didn’t need it. He’d been in this space so many times, the blueprint was etched in granite. He looked up and glanced towards the fireplace. There were the utensils in place, but it hadn’t been used in a while. Not that he was expecting it would have…

The kitchen is an obvious place to check when returning. Is it still the same? How about the table where so many meals were spent, where so many memories were made. Interestingly enough, the same could be said for most bathrooms, but few think to return to that.

He returned to his favorite place, keeping his footsteps quiet while moving towards the stairs. He didn’t take the bannister and it almost felt like tip-toeing when he didn’t go two steps at a time.

Even the small landings held memories.

He reached the top and turned, walking directly into the bedroom and freezing when it finally occurred to him that this wasn’t his home anymore, this wasn’t this free and open of a space and the key wasn’t really supposed to work.

Instead he now was in the room again. With his eyes closed, he recalled the way it looked before. The position of the bed, made and ready to accept its next visitor. Where the TV was and its proximity to the window. Even though this was the second floor, he never liked the outside world to see anything on the inside.

But he didn’t design this room. He was just allowed in and used and abused that time some of the time. More of the time than not. Maybe that’s why he was on the outside now, was looking at an old space he had once been that could do nothing more than serve as a giant reminder.

He had to remind himself why he was here to begin with and couldn’t place it. He couldn’t remember if he had an actual reason to be in the neighborhood or if the turns he took led him here thanks to his guidance.

He guided himself to the closet and at the doorway, he swore he could smell her. Smell her clothes and presence and he enhaled to get as much as possilbe. It was like he had taken her clothes in for a giant hug, the scent entering and immersing itself throughout him.

He held the position for moments, which could have be minutes. He would recall the scent for the months that would follow. It etched in his mind and stayed with him long after he left.

But the initial reception, the initial acceptance of this smell is a moment he cherished. Forgetting the reasons why he no longer could smell them in real time. Forgetting all that he did to make it where he couldn’t. Absolving himself for his actions and moving past them at light speed.

With speed, he turned from that spot, turned and returned to the door and lingered for a moment. He stood still and recalled moments in his mind. Moments of pleasure. Moments of pain, the pain he had caused.

If he was a cryer, this would have been the time.

He went to the bathroom and looked at the walls. Noticed the wallpaper and tried to remember what it looked like before. He doubted it had changed, but it was a safe place mentally to stay. A safe place to calm his emotions.

As if on command, the opening notes to “Norwegian Wood” by The Beatles began to play in his mind.

I once had a girl. Or should I say, she once had me.

He walked back towards the stairs, taking his time and noticing the doors to the other bedrooms, but not really noticing.

She asked me to stay and she told me to sit anywhere. 

So I looked around and I noticed there wasn’t a chair.

Down the stairs and back into the main living space. He looked towards the door, but really the windows to see if there was anything; but of course there wasn’t. Not in this neighborhood, not at this time of the day.

This was a working class space, a place where there were few stay-at-home mothers, not because they had to work to ensure bills were paid but because they wanted to pursue their careers and dreams. It was an ideal place to raise children, filled with positive female role models.

At least he liked to think that at the time.

She told me she worked in the morning and started to laugh.

I told her I didn’t and crawled off to sleep in the bath.

His thoughts went back to memories in the bathroom. Memories in the bedrooms. Memories flashing towards him like water racing down to the end of a funnel. At waiting there was his will, his determination to not let them effect his actions.

And when I awoke. I was alone, whispered the fool.

So I lit the fire. Isn’t it good Norwegian wood.

He was well away from the house before he looked back. A good enough distance away that a stranger wouldn’t associate him with it anymore. He looked and stared and watched and felt his memories, his feelings float up towards the sky like smoke.