The Little Room

The little room was uncomfortably warm in the heat of the afternoon. The Sun had streamed through the window and made it’s daily march across the bare, unfinished wooden floor from the door to the back wall and for a few short minutes would linger on the chair.

He stared at it mindlessly as a drop of sweat formed beneath his eye and ran down to his jaw, hesitated for a moment, gathering mass, and then continued to his chin and dripped to the table. His mind was weary and he felt like lying down, but the bed was still made up and since there would be no meaningful rest before the cool evening breeze came he decided to leave it. The neat simplicity of it comforted him somehow.

Finishing the glass of wine he’d poured for himself he rose and took the few steps across the room to the window. It was quiet and peaceful looking across the red tile roofs that stretched down the hill toward the sea, the reddish buildings and their blue window frames that may have once been the color of the sky itself. But he couldn’t help himself from thinking the scene was even more peaceful when it was cooler as more sweat dripped from his chin, quickly evaporating from the window sill.

He turned back toward the room, his eyes still narrowed by the bright sun, and for an instant the room looked the same as it had that day so long ago. The table, the chairs, the cupboard, the neatly made bed, the chair and the yellow summer dress lying on it glowing in the sunlight as if it were made of some magical material, thrown there in a moment of haste.

He clenched his eyes in a longing, hopeful moment and more sweat ran down his cheeks. When he looked again, his eyes cleared, and the dress was gone. He had known it would be. It always was, but each time there was the memory, and the hope. But for now there was only the wine, the empty glass, the bookshelf, the heat, and the slow rhythm of the passing days.