Newly revised

Bedroom

     I remember the light bouncing off the wall as having a mute orange glow. Which can’t be true, I know which lamp sat on the floor next to my bed. It was a cheap Walmart desk lamp with a clear plastic covering and a white incandescent bulb. I had it pointed towards the wall and it sat beneath my double bed. So the light couldn’t have been orange.

     My computer created creases on the inside of my legs where the metallic edges rested. To my right was my college-issued desk. It was covered in loose papers and a novel I hadn’t touched in weeks. To my left was a blonde curl of my roommate’s hair, the heat of her sleeping mass created a run of sweat down my rib cage.

     I sat sideways at the foot of the bed with my body pillow behind me. The walls were cold for my exposed skin. The opposite wall was bare but for a laminated Irish Writers poster. An English teacher in high school gave it to me. She was a kind Italian woman and I hung it mainly as a joke.

     The light on the wall could not have been orange but perhaps the walls were a light tan and the light was so dispersed I couldn’t tell the difference. She must’ve already taken her glasses off; I could see them on the windowsill at the head of the bed. The window was open a crack, the room had been getting unbearably hot at night. One of my roommates kept turning the thermostat up and I was waking up sweating. My eyelids tapped together.

      I had asked her to leave but she lay on my shoulder, her hand on my chest. I had told her not to look at what I was typing. This had been going on for weeks.

    Later that month she would storm out crying, only to return for the glasses she left on the windowsill. I had kept my eyes closed when she came back in.

     Later that year she would say hello and not much more. I found out she was the one who was turning up the thermostat.

     After I moved away for a time she warmed up to me again. She would get drunk and ask me about my post graduation plans. We would talk on the path well behind our friends as we walked back from illegal swimming holes. I pray she never texts me again.

     But the night with the orange light bouncing off the wall, she stayed. I closed my laptop and placed it on top a pile of textbooks on the desk. I arranged my pillows and turned off the lamp on the floor. I could still see the room; the blue public safety light outside bounced off the snow and into my window through the crooked blinds. Cold air hovered by my head. I had left her where she had curled up like a dog by a fire. Now she adjusted herself, turned all the way around to lay her head on my chest. She did not open her eyes. She was not wearing a bra. It was at least 2 am.

    “It’s too hot in here,” she said. I lay now in just shorts. She was under my thick blue comforter. “I’m going to take my shirt off.”

    She got on her knees. Under the public safety light her white skin became a soft blue, like the dark water directly beneath a pier. Her blonde hair waved as she lifted her shirt above her head.

    “Can I lay on top of you?” she asked.

    “Ok,” I said.

    The light that bounced off the wall was blue. Her skin was hot and white. My sheets were stiff and warm. She was soft. I wasn’t sure how someone could be so soft.

     I woke up sweating.