The little house on Poplar Avenue had always had a sticky lock. Lisa used to nag Marcus to spray the keyhole with some sort of oil. Because one time, on a really snowy winter day, she couldn’t get in. She and her groceries had to wait on the steps for a half-hour in the howling wind. By the time Marcus got home to jiggle the key the right way, Lisa couldn’t feel her toes. Now Marcus turned the key and bumped the door with his shoulder. The door opened with ease. Hardly daring to breathe, he waited, listened. There were no cars in the driveway, but still. Maybe they didn’t have cars, these people. When he was sure nobody was home, he stepped inside. Slipped off his running shoes and set them neatly on the mat. He wasted valuable seconds staring at the new wall colour. A fresh, pale blue. In fact, the whole place looked different. It had something of a home-like feel now. When he and Lisa lived here, the rooms looked less comfortable. Not like a place you stay at for very long. More like a place you stop at on your way to someplace else.
