Hello Layne. Welcome back. This is a note in which I am obliged to welcome your arrival. If you are able to read it, then I am glad that the rain has not washed it off of the front door. If it had then you’re luck would have washed away as well, but I cannot say that I would be upset. Attached to the opposite side of this note is a key. The key will open the door to this house. Inside you will find what I have changed: the phone is no longer positioned on the wall but it instead sits on the counter. There are no more magnets on the refrigerator because they have nothing to hold. There is now a banister on the stairs where there was no banister before, and there is also a new washing machine, which has been placed in the basement. There have been no adjustments made to the attic. There have been no changes made to the closets or to the shelves of your bedroom. There have, however, been major alterations regarding the office, and I will allow you to observe for yourself. I am looking forward to your reaction. When I return, I will be curious to see what you’ve done with the place. I anticipate you Layne, and I expect that my renovations have gone untouched. In truth, I cared neither for the color of the walls nor the feel of the tiled floor of the bathroom. I did not care for the slant of the roof, the height of the lamp in the parlor, or for the sills of the windows that face north, or for the rock garden out back. I do not ever want to forget your arms.
David Cotrone's writing has appeared in Fifty-Two Stories, The Rumpus, [PANK], Hobart, Vol. 1 Brooklyn, Necessary Fiction and elsewhere. He lives in New York, and you can find him at www.davidcotrone.com.