When I was a child, my father dragged us to showcase homes on the weekends. I don’t know why. These were houses for millionaires, and we weren’t even hundredaires. It’s sad looking back, so emblematic of the life he wanted. The life he thought he deserved and a life that I think he was delusional enough to believe he would have one day. The houses were extravagant and opulent and, I know now, gross in their excessiveness. They sprang up from dirt lots, clouds of dust rising at the heels of voyeurs. I can’t remember if I was young enough and silly enough to believe that living in a house like this was possible, but I remember falling in love with a bedroom. It was a small room, and the color white appeared nowhere. You could hide against the colors and never be found. The walls, ceiling, floor, and bedding were a saturated cranberry. The furniture was dark cherry. A single sleigh bed was caddy corner, and silk drapes hung from the ceiling and draped over the headboard and footboard. Pillows were piled on the bed, and the linens were rich and expensive. Even as a child, I knew this was not normal people bedding. This was rich people bedding. It was fluffy and heavy and the fabrics had texture. The duvet cover had the weight of grand drapes. I knew that I could live in this room with piles of books and nothing else. No company. No friends. No family. Books, sheets, and pillows. Not one other thing.