The Room by Steve Penticost

The brass door handle turned slowly,  light reflecting off its
scarred surface, worn down by a thousand turning, greasy fingers

The door, once open, quickly framed a plain room, pale duck egg walls
slashed by the light of a yet unseen window.  

A bed, mattress unmade, against a wall. A small scarred desk with
matching chair with folded card to correct the balance. 

On the facing wall, an edge of a poster, held by torn brown tape offering
only a hint of the picture it once held.

A washstand, its limescale stain under a leaky tap and a chain long divorced from its plug.

Air moved,  room releasing its scent, a potent cocktail of maleness,
long eaten toast and forbidden smoke hinting of past thoughts and
whispered conversations that once floated in this space. 

Of cold nights huddled and breath made visible, a small bar heater failing in its purpose as the meter spun out. 

Yet, there, as eyes closed in concentration, a faint hint of scent, of long forgotten  assignations, of clever smiling girls lured by the intrigue of lights out coffee and windowsill milk.

The room, still, quiet, but deafened by the hum of boundless years that once held promise, of books studied, the scrape of pens as words recycled into
new thoughts by weary time served eyes.

Dust devils buffeted by the draft from hurried steps ran for safety
from the borrowed leather-bound trunk flung with youthful strength on to the desk. 

Latches forced to reveal box fresh sheets thrown onto the bed, the cellophane wrapper crackling under tearing hands  

The kettle next, a gift from mum, a teapot from a proud and wet eyed gran. 

Swiftly joined by two mugs, labelled His and Hers from a winking nudging dad.

Carefully placed mementos brought from home announced their presence, reflecting
fading sunlight into shadowed corners.

In the distance a quad bell tolled; the door closed, an alarm clock set,
timetable studied, kettle boiled, one cup readied, one teabag placed.

One adventure to start, one future to begin