The glossy dark wooden floors shine faintly in the light of the setting sun, and the smell of fresh paint still lingers in the air. The door knobs had been freshly polished, and many renovations had been made, including the instillation of electricity, but it was worth it in the end. The Montanan turned former farmhouse is now my humble abode, and it suits my tastes perfectly.
The cottage, a 1,500 square foot farm house, is situated in a pastured valley with thickets, meadows, a lake, and Mt. Jackson dominating the landscape is now what I have the pleasure to call my home. It was in terrible disrepair when I bought, but I had it fixed up upon my moving into it.
It’s not that I hadn’t enjoyed life back in San Francisco, I just needed a change of scenery. I lived too close to my parents in a small high-rise apartment, and as it’s said, ‘the baby bird needs to fly away from the nest eventually.” I just love the fresh air and the greenery. Things like that are hard to find in the metropolitan areas of the world, and I’m captivated by the Montanan countryside.
The move had been more or less a smooth one. I found the house around four months previously and immediately fell in love. Not necessarily with the house itself, but with the landscape and property. Soon after, I signed the proper documents and the home was mine. With a few adjustments and instillations, it was anyone’s dream home. Almost immediately I began the eleven hundred mile process of moving my belongings and furniture to my new home, and here I am. I put my life, blood, sweat, tears, and my very soul into this house, and I won’t leave it unless God himself drags me out kicking and screaming. I put everything into it, and I’m here to stay.
I turn in my place on the red leather sofa to gaze longingly out the window at Mt. Jackson. The mountain alone is a force of such beauty; it could inspire awe in anyone. However, the evening sun paints the normally iridescent blue sky a stunning palette of oranges, yellows, reds, and purples. It is enough to bring one to their knees. I rise from my place, cross the room to the window, and let out a long drawn out sigh before I turn to my cat Emily Dickenson. '“I need a shower,” I whisper half to myself, half to her. The black and white calico cat cocks her head, as if to tell me ‘Upstairs, shower, now.’
With that I exit the two story great room, cross to the stairs and bound up them two at a time until I reach the landing. I turn left at the top of the stairs, and walk to the first door on the left-hand side of the hallway. All of the fixtures I had installed when I moved are new, however some of the things I kept. I kept the same basic layout of the house, with the two story great room, kitchen, study, powder room, and dining room all on the first floor with the entrance to the cellar. The second floor had only one bathroom, but it came with three bedrooms. The only change that I made was that I had a section of the master bedroom converted into a modest en suite.
I cross to the claw foot tub reproduction and shower, turn the water on maximum heat and close the curtain. With a gurgle of the pipes, a blast of hot water shoots out of the shower head. Though the original bathroom came with a claw foot tub, it was repulsive with grime and water stains. I had it gutted with the rest of the house, and had clean white tiles, chrome fixtures, and a new tub installed in its place.
Soon, the vanity mirror was steaming, and thick droplets of water roll down the glossy surface. This is my indication to strip my clothing off, take off my glasses, and climb into the tub. The warm water strikes my skin with shocking heat, making me jump, but soon my body becomes used to the heat. I feel the steaming water glide over my light beige skin, cleansing every curve and crack of my body, rejuvenating my skin. I can feel the calluses on my hands and feet soften from the moisture.
I run my hands through my medium length frazzled yet soft chestnut hair and I reach for the peach body wash, and begin to lather it across my chest and body. It seems that there’s something almost magic about bathing, or at least for me. It seems to refresh and revitalize me, almost giving me new life.
I let the water carry the suds from my body, and circle at my feet, exiting down the drain. When the last of the soap is gone, I turn the knob for the shower, and turn off the water. I open the curtain, and grab the nearest stark white towel my hand could find on the rack. I step out onto the bathmat, wrap the towel around my waist, and cross to the mirror. Still clouded with the condensation from the steam, I grab the washcloth that lies on the counter, and wipe away the steam.
The face that stares back at me is not the same as the 20 year old young man that left San Francisco a few weeks ago. Yes, it’s the same man, but something has changed about the face. There’s something… older about it. More defined and mature than the almost child-like man that left. The features are more lined and heavy set, the hazel eyes have sunken more into my face than they had been, and the faint stubble had grown into a short beard.
I reach over to the electric razor, and turn it on to be greeted by a faint buzzing sound. Slowly, I begin to remove the layer of hair; however I leave the faintest trace of stubble. I gaze now at the face without the hair, and it gives me the reminder of the man I once was, with the strong jaw line, high cheekbones, and cleft chin. I chuckled to myself. Nothing is ever perfect to me, not even the house. There has to be something wrong with me, my appearance, something. Suddenly my gaze falls upon my eyebrows, and I almost cringe in disgust. It’s been far too long since I last had them waxed.
I reach up and brush the almost-mono brow with the tips of my fingers, reviling at the feeling of the tiny bristle like hairs. However, the sun has gone down, and with all of the commotion of the last few days with getting everything wrapped up with the move; I don’t have the energy to tackle this tonight.
“You’ll get yours tomorrow,” I mumble to myself looking at my eyebrows in the mirror as I turn away, walk out of the bathroom and turn to my left once more, and walk down the hallway, and take the first door on my right to the master bedroom. I drop the towel down onto the floor, and yank open the drawers to the low standing black dresser. I rummage around, reaching for something, anything to wear. My fatigue is beginning to take over, and I need to sleep. I feel around in the back of the drawer until I feel a soft cotton cloth. I wrap my fingers around the cloth, and pull it out until I’m holding in front of my face a crimson plaid pair of pajama pants.
“Perfect,” I whisper, and I slip them on, ending my nakedness. It had been a long day, but it’s not like I had done anything that would exhaust me this much, even with the move. I turn in my place to gaze at the queen sized bed low to the ground with blood red comforters and sheets. I bite the bottom of my lip and fall onto the bed face first and bury my face in the comfort of the bedding. I turn my head just in time to see Emily Dickenson leap up onto the bed, only to curl up next to my bare chest, her fur tickling my skin. I turn in my place and pull her in close to my chest, and scratch the top of her head, to be greeted by a low purr, and I kiss her on top of her head.
“Here’s to starting over,” I whisper to her, and peck her head one more time, and soon delve into my dreams.
YOU ARE READING
Ghost
УжасыJasper has been longing for a change of scenery from the busy life in the city of San Francisco, and finally, he's gotten his chance. He finds a beautiful old farmhouse in the Montanan countryside, and he fixes it up as soon as possible. However, wh...