The Room

A woman walked into a room, and the room noticed her. 

There were plenty of people already there, sure, but the room seemed to like her. Funny enough, it didn’t even know her. But it wanted to. 

She wasn’t sold on wanting to be known, but she was noticing the room too. It was intriguing, and smelled like not-unpleasant childhood memories. This detail didn’t hurt. 

She wasn’t here to get to know the room though. She was here for a cup of coffee, and a moment away from sun. She liked the sun, but God, did make her dizzy sometimes. Not that she’d ever tell anyone. Especially not the room.

The room was comfortable exactly where it was. It had been here long before she’d walked in. Countless other women had walked in and out. The room didn’t much mind. Plus, this newcomer was already settling into her new environment, whether she wanted to admit it or not.

Her mind wandered to memories of being pushed on a swing, and she smiled. Then, covering her smile and walking up to the counter, 

“Cappucino. Hot.” 

Wood. She deduced. Old wood, and laminate. That’s what this place smells like. This room.

She, on the other hand, smelled like shampoo. Good shampoo. Almost edible. Sure, there was a linger of cigarette smoke, but who really minds that? It complimented the room. She adjusted her hat, a white swirl with accents of red around the brim, before taking a sip. The coffee was hot and strong. Foam brushed her lip, the same colour as her slightly aged necklace; pearl, from her grandmother. 

As she sat, her temperature rose, sweat broke on her forehead, and room became denser.

The room had very little natural light, but it didn’t feel that way. It was old, but had aged well. These were exactly the kind of contradictions that she enjoyed. She took another sip.

Her eyes floated around the room. Dark, intelligent, and self-censoring, they knew not to hold their intentions where anyone might see.

The room bore witness to these eyes with its usual temperament. It understood its role. 

She raised a cherry red fingernail to her upper lip, wiping the foam away to expose soft, white skin. She arched her back in a stretch, then crossed her legs. Her eyes went to the ceiling.

Long, thick joists held the planks above. Unmoving. 

Whoever hauled those bad boys up there must have one hell of a back nowadays. Another sip.

Uncrossing her legs, she allowed the memory of the swing-set return. She used to love the momentary feeling of flying, the excuse for unbridled mirth. She knew that the man pushing her liked her laugh. She wondered how it would sound in the room.

She pulled her smile back in and breathed the smell of the coffee. An emotionless smell. Grounding. She chuckled. Oops.

Her eyes landed on a green-bound book and her filter changed. The Perks of Being a Wallflower. 

Huh. 

Her favourite book, it was a piece of her that she hadn’t expected to find in this room. She dusted off the front of her shirt, although there was nothing there.

Perspiration lingered on her skin, residual effects of the August heat. She had heard that drinking a warm beverage cooled you down. She took another sip. 

Contradiction.

She sat in the room quietly, allowing it to get to know her, if only a bit. She finished her coffee, and placed the mug down on the sturdy table. On it, her lips were painted, with lipstick that matched her nails; her gift to the room.

Standing slowly, she began her exit. Her hips swayed as she walked towards the door. Her hand reached for the brass knob and she paused, a tingle running down her spine.

Goodbye.

She opened the door and left. 

The room let out a sigh.