It was a tree house, a house darting out from the side of hill, suspended in the trees. And who ever built the house knew what a feat that was, because there were mainly windows for walls. It was dark when I entered, almost 10 o’clock, and I hadn’t expected the beauty even in the night.

An essence permeated the apartment, like I’d entered another’s personality simply by inhabiting his home. There were smells, and pictures, and colors that he’d chosen, and I felt and saw these, slowly, as I moved from the living room, to the bedroom. Books by the bed, old classics, poems, and inspiration too. Brown sheets, a large bed, and pale blues dominated the things that covered his walls. An old drawing of a grand swimming pool, pictures of men from another time, and another large picture of people on a beach, in three parts, also seemingly from another decade. Nothing was a copy or generic. He lived in movement and moments. This is what I deduced.

The bathroom, used but not messy. The magazines: surfing, film, things to do in the city. The shower curtain, blue shapes, maybe boats or maritime in nature, I can’t remember now. The toiletries, useful but not exhaustive. Bandaids, and neosporin in the box, the same way I do it. Blue towels hung perfectly on a towel rack, such that I couldn’t really mimic the way they hung when I finished my shower and put them back. I imagined quarrels, my rough edges becoming an annoyance to his towel hanging precision.

I was meant to leave the next day, but I didn’t. Something was happening to me. It was unspoken even to myself. I stayed there, going off into the day and returning, off into the night and returning, loyal to this essence. One more night sleeping, cradled by his books, the brown and gray sheets, another morning woken by the panel of tree shadows that were created by the sunrise. I was growing fond of a masculinity, with a way, that wasn’t familiar but that pulled me. It balanced me, countered me, attracted me.

As I woke the next morning, my enamor was losing luster, for how solitary it was. I prepared to leave. The week and others were waiting. I’d learned as much about the ghost as I wanted to know.

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