Work Text:
The apartment he rents in Los Angeles was quiet— brick walls, good construction. The bedroom was the quietest, further cushioned from neighbors by the bathroom on one side and the kitchen on the other. Its window faced east, and on clear mornings, golden light would tumble through the blinds and fall across the bed in bright slices. Dark red sheets dressed the bed itself, the color incongruously rich compared to the pale walls and oak flooring. Countless pairs of leather pants and motorcycle jackets hung in the closet, and belts with large buckles and finely-made boots lined the shelves and floor respectively.
His kitchen window overlooked a narrow, lively street, and appeared slightly older than the one in his bedroom, letting more sound leak through. Tile countertops were clean to the touch but slightly cluttered with spices and dry goods; wooden cupboards were filled with mismatched dishes and expensive chocolate. In the refrigerator, a carton of eggs and a half-gallon of milk could always be found, along with an assortment of takeout containers and a miscellaneous vegetable or two. There was an unpleasant shallowness to the sink, and the dishwasher had been broken as long as he’d lived there; plates were usually scrubbed and put away immediately after eating.
On the bathroom counter there was one toothbrush, one tube of toothpaste, one spool of floss, and a small stack of paper cups. A towel rack on the wall housed one terrycloth towel at a time; a second, smaller towel meant for hair alone hung over the shower curtain rod to dry. Both were white, for ease of bleaching, and were laundered once a week in the claustrophobic basement of the building. Occasionally, one or both of the towels would be absentmindedly left in an odd place in the apartment, and their absence would go unnoticed until the showerhead was shut off. In the aftermath, tiny puddles of water would linger along the hall floors until they could be soaked up with the same errant towels which caused them.
Now, the halls have wires running along the baseboards, connecting equipment in the living room to that of the bedroom. There are stray dice and tarot cards which have found their way underneath the sofa, between pairs of shoes, behind the bed. His refrigerator has gained a pint of half-and-half and a carton of blueberries, while his chocolate shares its cupboard with a tin of oats and a bottle of honey. Dishes have accumulated in the sink; a towel is draped over the bathroom doorknob, for lack of a better place to go. The dresser, which was long largely empty, save for underwear and socks, is stuffed with white linen shirts and drawstring pants. A toy robot lives on the nightstand; white, wavy hairs stand out stark against the wine-dark pillowcases in the morning light.
The silence that once pervaded the space has been replaced with the hum of computer fans, the click of keys, and the whisper of another body’s breath.