Wednesday recalls moving in and remembers the moment she wanted to move out. She sees them both as the last of the boxes leave the room. All over the world Wednesday’s gone, seen, and done so much. But, still, each house, no matter how small a time spent there, was a memory, and nothing closes a memory like the last item out of the room.
“I’ll miss it here,” she says and knows she is lying and telling the truth all at the same time.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” asks the man carrying out her bed in pieces, “Where is it you’re going toward now? Better than here, I hope?”
Wednesday laughs, because it always is, and it always is not. Nowhere is better or worse, just different. Each place has scars, and she could see them, in the faces of those around. Life, in all places, had the same taste, if not the same texture.
But she lies because in social situations, aren’t we all expected to lie?
“It’s a bit better. Cleaner.”
“That’s not a hard thing to be,” the man says and takes the pieces out through the doorway. Leaving Wednesday alone in the room. She leans down and touches the floor, and runs her fingers across: no dust, no grime, but a dirty floor all the same.
“I will miss it here,” she says.
And she stands, and wonders where her whims will take her, and what that new house will be like.
She misses the places, but the places do not miss her. Never really touched them. Was never there. The skin too hard, growing over those scars, for her ever to make a mark.