The houseguest was not a houseguest, I mistakenly invited him as my distraction, as my soiled laundry, as my manhole with steam unquaintly rising. The houseguest lived largely inside my telephone, my cellular phone, the number belonging solely to me, intruding through my smallest, most forgettable spaces.
I met him at the playground, a married dad, I love those except for mine. It started in small, small ways, cellular. And as the days punctuated themselves via text, the words became the houseguest, invited off the street. Soon enough, 2AM would hit, and the unanonymous, yet absent of a body, words would metasticize: I want to fuck you. Or: My heart is pounding and this is a terrible idea. See you soon. Perhaps the kind, kind, stupid spouse was the houseguest, passing in and out of relevance, like laundry on the line, a slight scent as he entered or vacated the room.
Perhaps I am the houseguest, I often don’t recognize myself or what I am doing. Acting like what I wouldn’t say, but others would. Perhaps the phone was the houseguest, settled on the coffee table on vibrate, when it would go off my eyes met the scent of the fabric softener, then returned to the phone, the dirt she preferred.