Tim had spent three entire days cleaning his 1,200 square foot house, during which he did six loads of laundry, washed a sink full of dishes, and gave his kitchen and bathroom the complete scrub down. On the fourth day, after this impressive start, he decided to tackle the biggest task, the one he was most dreading, ridding himself of some of his possessions.

His girlfriend Jenna had been asking him for months to invite her over, but no one he knew had ever seen his place before. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed exactly, but he was exceedingly aware that he had an unusual amount of clutter. Some people might call it hoarding, but Tim didn’t think it was quite at that level. Yes, piles of objects were stacked to the ceiling, and yes, one of the bedrooms had become a de facto storage room, but he kept things clean and organized in his own way.

Jenna, however, was not just anyone, she was the one woman in the world with whom he could see a future. He had no doubts that she was the one, but her being the one would mean that eventually they would live together. Unfortunately, she did not strike him as the kind of person who would be okay with the situation he currently found himself in.

At first, decluttering was slow-going. He spent an hour picking up objects and staring at them in silence before putting them back in their place. Once he got rid of the first thing, the Beer Koozie he got for free at a video game conference in 2007, the next thing became a bit easier. He threw out stacks of coupons that were over 10 years past their expiration date, five lip balms that had hardened and turned rock solid, and a tennis racquet he purchased several summers ago, but never ended up using.

He continued this process, rinse and repeat, until, to his delight, he realized that he had thrown out nearly 15 trash bags full of various items. Clearly, he was correct in his assessment that he was not a hoarder, because how could a hoarder ever accomplish what he had done? At this rate, he would be able to invite Jenna over for a home-cooked meal as early as next week.

Looking around the room, however, doubt began to slip inside his mind, like an unwanted insect crawling through the space between a window. Without the objects in their place, the walls and floors that were now visible looked sterile and unwelcoming. He knew that it was still his house, but it looked wrong, like he was in a dream and this was the nightmare version of it.

Was any of this even necessary? He made good money at his job and had inherited quite a bit as well, after the passing of his grandmother. He had money to spare and perhaps this was a problem money could solve. Maybe he could rent out an apartment and pretend that was where he actually lived and keep his house safe and protected with all of the stuff that he might need one day.

People do this kind of thing all the time, pay for storage space. It’s not that unusual. In fact, it probably is not even the kind of thing that someone would need to mention to their girlfriend. It’s not like there was anything nefarious that he was keeping locked up, just items that held significance in some intangible way.

Secrets, however, can only be kept for so long. Eventually the truth gets out. And if Jenna found out that he had a secret house, she would likely come to an even worse conclusion and suspect him of having an affair. Once that seed of doubt was planted, nothing he could say would ever be able to convince her that she was mistaken.

No, the stuff would have to go. He could not imagine a life worth living that did not have Jenna in it. Still, he did not know the best way to proceed. He looked around at all of his things, the mood ring his middle school crush had given him, the yo-yo he won for making the honor roll, the stacks of newspapers and boxes of memorabilia. How could he quantify the value of these things? 

He could create a rubric, maybe, or some kind of mathematical equation that would let him know whether the item should be discarded or kept. While this seemed like a good idea, the more he thought about it, the more he felt that using this technique would result in more uncertainty, since who’s to say what score would be worthy enough? As much as he would like for there to be an objective truth, some things in life cannot be quantified.

The only other option he had was total destruction. Before he could change his mind, he picked up one of his red plastic gasoline cans, and poured the liquid all around the room, soaking his things thoroughly. He lit a match and tossed it into the air, then bolted out the front door. For when it came between his stuff and Jenna, he would choose Jenna every time.

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Caitlin O’Halloran is a writer living in Rochester, New York. Her poetry and fiction have been published in literary magazines, including The Bloomin’ Onion, Dominique Literary Magazine, -ette review, Frozen Sea, and Sybil. She is coeditor at Gone Lawn. www.caitlinohalloran.com