Description of a Place

It seems like there are shoes laying in the oddest possible places; next to the uncomfortable blue loveseat (though it’s hard to love), under the red and black mountain bike that lies next to it. The dining set is of that pale wood you see on everything in IKEA. It’s smooth to the touch, and somehow ingrained with the smell of the dying flowers that have sat atop it for the past few weeks. The carpet is a muted pink, and it’s tolerably comfortable but you certainly wouldn’t want to be dragged across it naked. The Pergot hardwood squares on the floor in the foyer are slightly crooked, and those few that are out of place throw the whole thing delightfully out of wack. Even the air has its own feel here; cooler than the hallway, slightly thicker with the smell of things familiar, things known. Inspecting these things, one is constantly assaulted by the glare of a too-white computer screen (well, three of them, actually.) The sounds in this place are perfect in that way that heightens the senses. Counting Crows are playing “Anna Begins” on a quiet stereo. All of this in one gigantic room, though the medicinal white light from the fluorescents in the alcove kitchen lays ghosts of shadow on the sage throw carpet that holds the dining room set. There are doors, doors, doors everywhere. A glass sliding door leads to a miniature balcony, but marble vertical blinds slice that into ... well, pieces of a miniature balcony, I suppose. Another door behind me leads to a deceptively shallow closet. And for a reason, I can’t fathom (although this seems to be the crux of the entire landscape here) there is a lonesome book sitting on the coffee table. It’s Hearts in Atlantis, by Stephen King. Man, now there’d be a fun place to describe.