Comrades?

Living alone is not natural. There is no one around to blame for lights left on, the dishes in the sink, or the weird smell coming from the trash can. No one's home when you leave in the morning or when you come home at night. All of the leftovers from tenants past suddenly belong to only you, which is exciting and yet strangely a burden at the same time. One thousand bottles of cleaner. Unmated, abandoned socks. Gum wrappers and boxes of Western Family macaroni and cheese. A place towards which I felt no ownership is now mine, and only mine. Now I am forced to own it. The house seems almost sympathetic to my plight. My residence is probably lonelier than I am and whispers welcome and protection to me as I sit in my room, lock the basement door, or look through the cupboards. We are comrades in arms. I don't know if that quite works because townhouses don't have arms, but whatever.