Some houses retain a transcript of the souls that had passed beneath their roofs, holding the lives of the people they had sheltered. This home had passed from a wealthy railroad family, to a city developer, then turned into a hotel, a flophouse, then several years abandoned until George bought it for a dime, fixed it up, turned it into a tea shop, returned now to a glimmer of its earlier grandeur. The clink of teacups on saucers has replaced the clink of chains as ghosts passed down the upstairs hall, listlessly searching for a lost loved one, a light in these gray hallways, a warmth in the master bedroom as though from a fire roaring in a fireplace.
George waves me over to the fire. Sit down. Have a cup of Earl Gray White Tip and a scone. Tell me why you’re still here. I thought you would be moving along to New York months ago. Been writing? Or still chasing girls around main street? You know you’re gonna get in trouble one of these days, fall in love, have a house, a family, and then you might as well say goodbye to that typewriter. The rest of your story has been told once the cry of a baby breaks the silence of your home. Then there’s a whole new dream. And it’s a good one, filled with love and pride and that all-powerful word “family”. But it’s not writing now; let’s not fool ourselves. You and me, we’re different types. We like the solitary book on a November evening. We like the rhythm of prose in the morning over a cup of tea and a quiet song playing in the other room. Each day passed alone until a friend stops by to say hello. Now, have another cup. Forget about everything that has passed these past couple of months. You’re home now.
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