Chocolate frog card box holding old receipts, the ones only created by credit cards. Tea with herbs that are said to induce sleep. White lights on 3-foot-tall Christmas tree. The front yard devoid of December snow. $1 Christmas cards unsigned and unused. A baseball cap upside-down and leaning near the hand-me-down chair my grandmother used to own. My eight-year-old briefcase, with a couple holes at the corners, that normally holds my laptop whenever I tote it around. Three keys on this keyboard that have undergone trauma (G, J, and the right “alt” key). Two new stockings dangling on either side of the Charlie brown tree, both stockings not hanging on hooks but held in place by paperweight-like objects on the mantle. A humming phone a floor above. A ticking clock on the wall that states 10:55 when it’s actually 11:18. Mary eating popcorn as she grades usability surveys. Guinness pajama pants, stretched with frequent usage. A remote, the germs and residue invisible as my eyes are blinded by the constant glare of the monitor and the cursor spewing words over and over again until I click publish.