You guided me to your home. The home you'd spoke about, when
we sat on the bench that faced the North Sea. The bench that
had been chewed by the salt air, the wind that was strong and
had blown the wood to grey. And so that's how I envision your
house and your street, like dirty linen with a metallic hue. I
thought to myself, I would never see your home. But as I stood
outside, waiting for you to open the door, I saw that I was wrong.
You had lied. The street was orange with electronic light. The
houses were gold and the door numbers shimmered. My skin
turned amber and the car windows looked like they were on fire.