Shoving through the too heavy door, a small kitchen and sitting room emerge. A tiny round table sits in an alcove to the left, perfect for eating breakfast, although we will never use it. Then there are chairs and loveseat couch, maroon and scrambled egg yellow. They are upholstered with material but have a wooden frame and arms. The carpet is short and stiff, as though it could poke right through the soles of a thin pair of shoes. A kitchen to the right houses a microwave and mini fridge, with an ice tray that stay unfilled. Even further to the right is a shower and bathroom, with an automatic toilet that flushes too loud and too suddenly. Then ahead, three doors are presented.
The center-most, with a room number that could please even the most obsessive compulsive tendencies, Room 111 should feel homey and safe. And while it does, with locked windows and a thick door, it is no place like home. At first it seems lucky to have gotten a single room, and the opportunity to get away in case one desires it. A Harry Potter snuggie lays on the bed, a beach towel in a pillow case replacing a forgotten head rest. The desk is scattered with dirty clothes that haven’t yet found their way into the laundry bag. Along with the tank tops and socks, interspersed books rest on the particleboard. Looking for Alaska, Paper Towns, Harry Potter. It feels more at home. Toiletries are splayed across the top of the dresser, the inside of the top drawer, the surface of a desk covered in their damp Ziploc bagggies.
All the belongings in the room fit into a duffel bag and backpack, where many of them remain, not willing to be unpacked when they will inevitably have to be shoved catawampus into their casings again on Saturday. It now seems easy to become comfortable here, but it is to be prevented. Caring hurts, it means missing this place.
I already know that I will.
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