The Guest Bedroom

She sat upsettingly in a slim chair with a finger wrapped around a cool mug handle. Surrounded by sparse furniture basked in yellow light from an old chain lamp, the room felt vast and lonely. The room had been used during his brief stay, an unmade bed and several open drawers; the only lasting evidence that anybody had been present. All else remained untouched in its antiquated state.

Mechanically raising the mug to her lips and then placing it back on the side table, each time stamping a wet ring only slightly off center from its original. The ceramic tapping in rhythm against the rich wood, its trivial echo fleeted into the narrow guest hallway.

She uncrossed her legs, revealing a small grass stain at the hem of her skirt. A quick, yet effortless rub of the fabric between her forefinger and thumb yielded only a slightly larger marking. Her pale legs exposed as she began to smooth the garment instinctively, as if to hide the stain again, its brief distraction unwelcome. Only wanting to relive the episode again in silence, she pulled the chain of the pewter lamp and painted the room with a blue-grey hue from the night sky.

The decision had been made instinctively for this life was all she knew. She would stay and he would not return for her, its finality still fresh and stinging like a deep paper cut. A summer affair without recourse had been the intention, you see, nobody gets hurt that way. His words meant nothing, his touch even less, until they no longer found her waist or ears in the safety of the guest bedroom. The rooms scant furnishings removing any cache for his presence to remain behind for her comfort. She was now alone in her contention, pulling the blanket from his bed to cover her knees.