I

This is not your bed. In fact, you are not in a room that you frequent. A wonderment of why this should be the case crosses your mind and quickly finds its out, sinking deep into the thick comforters and a mattress atop two others, crooked against the wall to your left, her right. It's peculiar, this kind of comfort, you think. The kind that is both claustrophobic and forgiving, which conjures memories of another place, vaguely similar to this one, though you don't remember actually ever being there at all. The word "homely" comes to mind, and is cast aside, as you know it isn't the correct one to describe the place.

Not entirely foreign to the present scenery, you adjust your body in such a way as to maximize your view of the books on their shelf, english standards you decide, the albums in their sleeves, and the flowers in their vases, as your company (to whom this domain belongs) dances around mounds of fabric on the floor. Your aren't paying attention to what the thin girl has to say, but you don't feel guilty, since she is clever enough to know this and perhaps chooses to continue regardless. For minutes, she goes on in this fashion, seldom standing in one place, seldom even glancing in your direction.

Then there is a presence behind you, in the bed that is not your bed, in the room that is not your room. Turning to face it, you wonder when she stopped talking. Since you haven't said more than "mhm" for over an hour, the flowers had caught your attention longer than they normally would have, but the girl appears content, and apologetically informs you that it's come time to leave. At the door, "I'll call you tomorrow" surfaces behind your tongue, but gives way to a simple "Later, man." Best to play it safe, you think, and on the way home reflect on your use of the article "man." You've never said that before in your life.