In the kitchen, a pile of pale bamboo cereal bowls crowds the cabinet top. Their corresponding spoons are stuck to them. Pull them off and you'll see their silver bottoms ringed with white lactose remnants. The kitchen garbage is almost full but free of organic smells.
The only laundry littering the floor is an assortment of colorful feminine socks. They're scrunched inside out. Yellow folders are scattered strategically over the carpet. Stacks of papers, articles, chapter copies, and drafts appear haphazard over the desk and table. Six indigenous films, three comedies, a melodrama, and four book adaptations are lined up on the desk. Beside them a half dozen film books, and four novels written in English but not in England. A mocha tealight is lit in a red and black bulbous holder beside a lighter and an empty pack of menthol marlboros.
There is one toothbrush on the glass tray. One towel on the rack. One suitcase missing from atop the wardrobe.