Eleven unmatched socks in varying states of decay.
I dress shirt, crumpled.
Four beer bottle caps.
One empty can of Natty Boh.
One full bottle of good beer.
Phone charger (doesn’t he need that?).
Two dice huddled in the dust where the desk had been.
Set of snowboard bindings, various small screws on the coffee table.
Book authored by Laird Hamilton (I thought he’d taken that).
One snowboard lying along the baseboard.
Mud covered shoes.
A canvas bag filled with golf balls.
In the bathroom: One inexplicable roll of black electrical tape on the sink. Lion vomiting dirty laundry in a corner. One overflowing trashcan. A scattering of dental floss picks and an empty bottle of Brut on the windowsill. Washcloth on the shower floor, already stiffening.
Cold tiles under my feet and one dollar and eighty three cents.
A whisper of Burberry London.
The boy is gone again. The girl remains.