Consent Preferences
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Our House

They stop a few steps from their front porch. A moment of silence passes, and then they look at each other. The wife says, “Why is it that I don’t think this is our house?”

Husband puts down his bottle of whiskey and checks the address. He scans their surroundings. Those were the same houses and cars he’s seen for the past eight years they’d lived in this neighbourhood. He squints at his house. “It’s the exact spot ours used to be, though.”

“Are we drunk?” She checks her half-empty bottle of beer and the quarter left in her husband’s whiskey. She remembers his was already half-empty when they started their nonsense celebration about their youngest child finally leaving the house. No more tuition fees. No more cleaning up after big babies.

She shakes her head wildly. “Can’t be.”

He points at the door. “But this isn’t our house.”

Todd from the next block waves at them as he passes their street. Husband and Wife wave at him from over their shoulders. Before Todd is out of range, Husband gets the crazy idea to chase after him and ask if that’s their house.

Todd laughs. “Are you drunk out of your mind? Of course, that’s your house.”

Husband laughs along and returns to Wife’s side. “He says that’s definitely it.”

“Do you feel something strange about it? Like it is our house, but it isn’t?” She runs her palm in circles over her chest. “It’s a strange feeling, but I’m pretty confident I’m right.”

They discard their beer and whiskey and sit on the brick walkway in silence. Just as Wife gets ready to convince Husband that it cannot not be their house, she sees her neighbors silhouetted on their living room windows, watching them.

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