Part 1Every day I misplace a small part of myself, and for the life of me, I cannot think of where I’ve left it. It bothers me, confuses and frustrates me, for quite a while afterwards, but then my mind is distracted by other things. Such as the man on the other side of the living room. I can see clearly he is dusting, moving things to one side with one hand while the other hand goes to work with a scrap of cloth. But who is he? What is he doing in my home? Or is this my home? Some of the objects look vaguely familiar, though a number of them are strange to me. And there are one or two items that I simply would never have bought. But I don’t want to ask questions. I don’t want to sound stupid.
I stare out of the window. It’s a cool autumn day. I know because the back yard is skirted by a
