were I to open a drawer or cupboard, everything inside would be pristine and neatly arranged.
The décor was plain and functional, but with occasional flashes of kitsch—there was a large calendar with a lurid photograph of two kittens in a basket,
and a cloth tube to store plastic bags and designed to resemble an old-fashioned doll hung on a door handle.
A single cup, glass and plate were stacked on the drainer. We walked into a tiny hall,
and I followed Raymond into the living room which, again, was spotless, and reeked of furniture polish.
A vase of chrysanthemums sat on the window ledge, and an uncurated jumble of framed photographs and ornaments
was protected by the smoked-glass doors of an outmoded dresser like holy relics.
An old woman in an armchair reached forward for a remote to mute an enormous television.
It was showing that program where people take old things to be valued and then,
if it turns out they are worth something, pretend they like them too much to sell them.
Three cats lounged on the sofa; two glared at us, the third merely opened one eye and then went back to sleep, not deigning us worthy of a response.
“Raymond, son! Come in, come in,” the old woman said, pointing to the sofa and leaning forward in her chair to shoo the creatures off.
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