I stare into strangers' apartments, especially at night when we walk the dog. I stop and steal glances while he tugs the leash, dragging the dog away from the flowers to the curb. The walls in those rooms look so perfect and white, the ceilings unblemished. I look away if there are people inside the rooms. I don't want to see the people, living their lives.

He asks, "Do you remember when you used to love me?"

"I remember," I say. The roof of my mouth and my teeth ache, like they did when I was a kid wearing braces.

I want a room with a light that spills through a curtainless window at night. I want a room no one is in, a room with smooth ceilings, and walls without paintings or photographs, bookshelves, or bric-a-brac. One apartment above the park has a red room. I wonder how it would be to stand in its center, surrounded by those womb walls. Could a person live in such a room? Two people walk in, and then one of them leaves. Someone would have to leave, yes?


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