The Light Around the Door
Last night, loneliness sat with me in my bed. For some reason, the quality of the darkness in the room was different than normal. In my bedroom, there's a pocket door that leads into the kitchen. Who knows what the builder was thinking. But there was a light around the door that isn't normally there. I was dozing off and the breeze from the open window ruffled the curtains, sounding like the ruffle of someone's dress. I woke from a half-sleep and didn't know where I was, and felt that there was someone in the room with me. The room felt like it had disconnected from the rest of the house and was a spaceship, hurtling through the cosmos, untethered to the rest of the world as I knew it. I felt like the only person in existence. Like if I opened the bedroom door, I would step out into nothingness. I lay there in bed, my mind not quite grasping the light around the edge of the door, the ruffle of the wind through cloth, and the deep emptiness of the world outside the windows. Eventually I went to sleep, dreamed about champagne, and awoke still feeling like I was in a dream. But without the champagne. I went into the kitchen and the light was still on in there, and the room smelled like buttered popcorn.