When I returned to my apartment, everything seemed to be subtly altered. Although I had only been away a few days, things seemed to have been moved, shifted slightly. The furniture looked tarnished; everything was coated in a sad layer of dust. The air was tainted. The clock had stopped. It was as though I was stepping into someone’s abandoned life.
I spent the whole day in a frenzy of cleaning. I vacuumed and scrubbed and polished and rearranged the furniture. I emptied the refrigerator. I scoured the bathroom and then I started on the bedroom. I tore the sheets from the bed and threw them into a rubbish bag; sorted through my clothes discarding all but a few basic items. I filled a bag with shoes. Stripping away the layers. All those layers, I kept telling myself. All those veneers of joy and pain and boredom and wonder. Get rid of it. Get rid of it. Get rid of it. Until the words rang in my head like a mantra. Then I unplugged the telephone, climbed into the shower and, turning on the water as hot as I could stand it, scoured my skin raw.
When it was finished, I was exhausted. I sat in the chair watching the dust settle and the night come in through the window. Now everything was as it should be. I was a stranger.