77 Degrees

The worn faux wood, barren of anything that might give it the slightest glint of personality, stared back as me as I entered the room. Sturdy and angular. Soulless and awful. The off-white walls could do no more than nod in agreement and the cold tiled floor sighed in defeat as well. Lonely, they said. Empty, they said. The only sound was the groan of the exhausted air conditioner in the corner, chugging away without stop and begging me to raise the temperature on the thermostat. It fought long and hard with the summer heat until finally, under the bright 3 o’clock sun, it gave up with a loud huff and let the mercury climb sky-high.  You deal with the heat, it cried in defeat. The furniture merely squeaked its half-hearted pity. Finally, I left it alone there, huffing and puffing in the sweltering sun, to hide away in the frigid room next door. I think I heard the dresser drawers, still empty, grunt a short sound of protest as I left them alone in there to simmer in its barren and lonesome state. Its bellows were quieted only by my silent promise that later I would return and try my best to cool its scorching solitude.