Before entering the next room, the eighth, I decided I would absolutely own the room upon entering it. Had there been an audience (and I imagined there was, and played to them mawkishly, if not thoroughly) they might have leaned forward in their seats a bit with a faint smile crimping up one or both corners of their mouths, or looked briefly over at their companion as if to ask, “Can you believe this?” and touched them slightly on the arm. All at once, even in the motion of crossing the threshold, I was in the heart of the room rearranging things with a self-assuredness that only a resident could have. Not brash, mind you. I imagined I had been making preparations all day and was now putting final touches on what would be a social triumph. Someone not at all humble but in the minds of all others unanimously and unquestionably humble. Fooling them all, but not maliciously, nor in any patronizing way. A rug was shifted to make a pleasant, welcoming diagonal from the entrance; chairs moved to form an intimate circle; the phonograph (no CD player, how quaint!) made to emit low sonorous tones penned by an underrated foreigner. A good couple bottles of something were fetched from the cabinet as if I had known always that such things were there (despite the fact it’s not a proper cabinet for drinks to be put in, all the more stylish, actually). And glasses, five of them. If I so convincingly and charmingly prepared for guests, might this somehow summon them to arrive? Would I hear voices already laughing, steps already light, approaching the very door through which I had burst a short time ago?