YOUR HOUSE IS very noisy at night, and your boyfriend decides he is going to fix it because he can’t tolerate noise while he’s trying to sleep. He believes that it is your plumbing that has been keeping him awake, and he opens up your toilet tank and replaces everything inside with new valves and pumps, all shiny and clean and modern-looking. When that doesn’t stop the noise, he goes into your walls, pulls out old pipes and replaces them with new pipes. He still hears noises at night. He replaces your sink, your faucet, your hot water heater. He replaces your septic tank with a new septic tank. He can’t find the source of the noise. He’s up at all hours of the night, shaking you awake. Do you hear that?
He replaces all the wood flooring in case it creaks. He replaces the window glass. He replaces all of the fire alarms. He throws out the radios, the televisions, the computers, the alarm clocks, the grandfather clocks. He unplugs the refrigerator, the dishwasher, the ice maker, the stove.
He becomes convinced that you are the reason he can’t sleep, and he replaces you. Maybe he sleeps better, finally, but you aren’t sure. You stand out on the curb, it’s about dusk, and everything is so quiet. You can’t hear anything. You look at the house you used to live in, but you don’t recognize it. The walls are gone, the yard has been dug up. There’s nothing left but the studs and the dirt and your boyfriend, tossing and turning in his bed. Next to him is a shape that should be you, still and silent, not breathing. The new copper pipes gleam greasy orange from the streetlight. You don’t know whose house it is, but it’s not your house.
You stand on the sidewalk with your suitcase in one hand. That’s not my house, you think, laughing as loud as you can.