The Room

It was rare that I would walk down a street and look in through a window and want to be inside the room I saw there, I mean live in it, because other people’s furnishings and lighting arrangements disturbed me deeply, but on one occasion I did like what I saw, I liked it so much and found it so comforting and familiar that I was sure I must at one time have actually lived in this room, despite all evidence to the contrary, I started telling people about it, pointing out the house if I ever passed with a companion, often making a particular effort to pass with a companion, I would reminisce about the former period in my life when I inhabited this comfortable, beautifully furnished, and impeccably lit room, expressing surprise when the companion claimed never to have visited me there, how could that be, because I did make such a point of entertaining back then, in that small but perfectly appointed room in which I would recall the evening’s laughter and conversation as I carried the used wine glasses to the sink after my guests had left while night fell like unpinned hair outside the window, are you sure, I would say, you don’t remember, how strange, for those evenings will stay lit in my memory for all time, the way I would remain awake long after the guests had left, my face lit by the halo of the one lamp still burning, how strange, I said, I remember everything.