“i can’t believe how comfortable some of these beds are.” leticia mused, letting herself fall back onto the bed of a teenage girl in one of the available houses. it was hard to choose a house to live in all by herself when each home looked like a museum of someone else’s life. like a dollhouse, the girl’s room seemed almost perfectly preserved–a butterfly pinned beneath a glass frame. she missed living in a full house or in her small, studio apartment. this house was lovely and whoever had taken care of it before everything had survived at least for a little while. there was no stink of mildew or rotting food like some of the others she’d declined despite their more impressive layouts. this house was small, but clean and well-loved.
“how did you pick a place?” they were all so similar, little mausoleums filled with dead secrets. closets filled with the scent of other people and dust. “i just feel like an intruder anywhere i go.” a sensation that wasn’t new. intrusion was an anxiety she’d had since she was old enough to walk, intruding on her abuela’s secrets. “i mean, did you just settle on the best layout and clear everything out or–” she let the words hang in the air, finger tracing the curling edge of a magazine cutout collage above the dead girl’s bed–shuddering barely visible; she felt like she was walking over someone’s grave.
