I walked into her house. My eyes began to water. And as she looked at me with curious eyes, I told her I am allergic to dogs. Or fluorescents. Which ever one worked. That was a lie. I knew that. So did she. She asked me to describe my home. "Clean," I said. The room became mute. I watched her fingers as they tapped each other perfectly to the ticking of the clock on the table. As if her fingers were playing a game of Simon Says. I took note of her wall. Pictures of intricate designs that were hard to understand. As if they were trying to shout some type of message at me, and I had become deaf to their voices. Colors. I looked back at her as she watched my eyes. I finally spoke. "Quiet."

  "What was that?" she asked.

  "My house." I explained. "My house is, uh, quiet."

  "Why do you say that?"

  I didn't actually know. I mean I said "quiet" because I always heard my mom describing things were the same five letters. The colors on the walls were always quiet to her. I was always quiet to her. She never understood why. And as I became louder, she asked for silence. I looked down at my laces. I looked up and finally spoke again. "I don't know. I have to go now." She watched me as I rose from my seat. As I walked towards the door, everything got louder. Everything grew. The ticking of the clock. The creaking of wood floors. The tapping of her pen. Her foot. Her fingers. The soft slamming of the door. I walked away. I felt the snow melt on my cheek. I couldn't feel my nose. My ears. Though I heard the fallen leaves I had stepped on, I couldn't feel them. I felt the air... I looked back at the house. It was quiet. I went home.