ebourland

I am reminded of the time, and it seems a long time ago now, I delivered by stealth, after dark and against the rent agreement, for purposes of storage, a spare, obtrusive door to the cellar where the witch conducts her witchy malfeasance with her colleagues the rats, the roaches, and the imbecile's ghost, down there among chilly cinderblock walls and old electrical gear and piles of rotted lumber with nails sticking out. Where for all I know it remains, unhinged from its right place, the closet whose baseboard we altered, also against the rent agreement, to situate IKEA shelves for clothing and sundries and rows of your shoes, that one evening, probably the last time we cooperated on a domestic task.