ruth's house

Her house was medium sized and wooden red. It sat close to the city center, remnants of old crashed into new on her street. The snow made creaking sounds under my shoes as I walked to her gate, part of fencing in a tiny front yard with a single naked apple tree. The air filled with ice fog escaping my lips when I paused for a moment. The house looked like a fire in the cold night, all the windows downstairs were dimly lit and slightly flickering from what I imagined were candle lights and a fireplace within.

I walked up to the door and couldn’t find a doorbell, only a large door knocker on the middle of the door. That felt quaint. I gently knocked, waited for a moment, then knocked again with more force too quickly. When she opened, I was nearly still hanging onto the hoop, pulled in with it.

She looked brilliant. It seemed like she was tall and she usually dressed in all black, tonight was no exception. Except a loose knitted cardigan that looked effortless. She wore a pantsuit, which I felt was unusual, but I loved them. Grey streaks shimmered through her short dark curls, and her lips were bright red. Her face broke into a smile, and she gestured for me to come inside.

Of course I was right, inside was fuzzy and warm. All the walls were painted in colours, one wall was even black. I had never seen anyone have a black wall before. Past the first small hallway was another larger one covered in books from wall to wall. From the floor, all the way to the ceiling. She led me into her kitchen, which looked old-fashioned. The thing I really took note of was the pots and pans hanging from the ceiling above a kitchen island in the middle of the room. It made me feel like I was in a movie, which was oddly suitable and made complete sense to me. She asked me if I wanted some hot chocolate. I glanced over to the half-filled pot of coffee and she smirked. I felt like she knew exactly who I was.

We sat in large chairs next to a small table, drank black coffee and discussed an upcoming event at the movie theatre where I volunteered, and where she was the boss. As we spoke, I let my eyes wander across her walls. This room was dark green, and picture frames filled most of it. Small ones, large ones, black ones and golden ones. Photos of her family. Her children, whom she had acquired in a former marriage. Pictures of her wife. Pictures of all of them together. And I realised it wasn’t until this very moment that I had let myself believe my life could be just like that. Like everyone else’s.