There's a place for you. A little house on the tree-lined avenue inside my heart. It's brick, painted white, and quaint. The street numbers stand out in a black art-deco font. They were affixed at a slant, because the previous owner was careless. I know you'll fix it though; you're handy like that. Plus you have an impeccable attention to detail. You call it a compulsion, I call it useful.
I just had the floors redone. Some genius thirty years ago had thought it would be refreshing to install a thick, hide-like shag carpet in the most appealing shade of avocado green. I'm certain the orange fleur de lis that no doubt littered the aged wall-paper complemented the rug in a most fashionable way. Last year I painted, and this year it was the floors. Under the offensive yarned vegetation rested oak planks in decent condition. I had them stripped and refinished. Now they gleam--you can practically see your face in the wood.
How did I know? When you walked in you went straight for the bookcase. Yes, of course they're all there. I couldn't part with any of them. I double up my books on the shelf, but they're back there, behind the Austens and Brontes. I guess I always knew you'd come back for them.
