P

The first time I went to P's house, it was quite a while after we met. We had hung out a lot, sure, but we'd never been to each other's houses. The first time I went, it was because he needed a clean shirt. He'd gone swimming needed something dry. We turned onto a real long street and I knew that this wasn't the type of neighborhood I should be in. Nice cars parked in every driveway, every garage, neat lawns and trimmed hedges, it wasn't a place for a person like me to be in. I thought that maybe it was a shortcut to his house, but then we stopped walking. His house was one of the nicer houses on the street. His mom had beds of flowers that lined a stone walkway. Even the grass looked expensive. We stopped at the front door, he goes “I'm sorry about the mess,” and opens to a gorgeous living room. The floors were a dark wood, a contrast to the stark white couch. He walked through the living room quickly, undressing as he went, and threw his clothes down a hallway across from the front door. He landed them perfectly in the bathroom. I didn't want to say anything, it felt wrong to gawk over his house, I feel like hed take it wrong anyway. I stood in the doorway while he pranced around the house. I was expecting a nice lady in a white dress and pearls to come downstairs and yell at us to get out of her house. He goes, “My actual room is upstairs but I mostly just stay in the basement.” He opens another towards the end of the hall and motions me in. It felt alien now, but soon this house would be a second home.