The eerie emptiness of an apartment, freshly vacated by a soured roommate who spent the last two days of his tenure throwing an almighty temper-tantrum, the most passive-aggressive of strops – slamming doors at odd intervals, blaring Hindi Internet radio from his laptop speakers with the door open at 4 a.m., leaving a note about the smell of your sandals as pitifully childish revenge because a few months back you had to confront him about leaving sweaty socks in the living room – leaving behind not so much a lifting of the oppression but an uncertain, vacant quiet. [Saturdays = Youth.]