'Beyond a Room,' or 'Waiting Room.' I can't decide.
Just behind me, slightly to the right of where I am sitting now is a door. An unpainted plain wooden door that looks too small for the space. The knob to the door is made of a hollow thin metal, the color of gold. It, like the door, was cheaply made.
If you turn the cold metal handle, swing open the featherweight door and walk through it over the minimal black plastic threshold, below the doors peak that deceptively encroaches the head, you will find yourself upon a stage.
This stage is small with a parquet wooden floor that is scratched with gouges of time past. Above bright track lights shine over you casting a long shadow of yourself onto the crimson wall behind.
In front of you past the blinding lights are many small tables and chairs. The tables are barren as well as the chairs. They almost have a lonely quality as if waiting eternally for someone to come and sit.
Further past, at the back of the room is a bar. The bar is long stretching from one end of the room to the other. Unlike most bars, this bar is low leveled like a table; a tall stool would tower over the counter. The same lonely chairs are lined in a row facing the bar.
On the back wall of the bar is a group of mirrors. At the base of the mirrors is an etched design that looks like flower petals. The petals are brightly lit glowing from small lights just behind the mirror.
In the middle of this room is one of the same tables and single chair. This chair is pulled out. This is where I sit at night sipping coffee on my brake.
I sit there in the silent, empty bar, waiting like the rest of the space. Never has a bartender come, a costumer entered or an act appeared on the stage. I look around sometimes and I think I see something move, but then I realize it is only my reflection in the mirror. I acknowledge him and go back to drinking my cup of coffee, waiting silently becoming part of the room.
If you turn the cold metal handle, swing open the featherweight door and walk through it over the minimal black plastic threshold, below the doors peak that deceptively encroaches the head, you will find yourself upon a stage.
This stage is small with a parquet wooden floor that is scratched with gouges of time past. Above bright track lights shine over you casting a long shadow of yourself onto the crimson wall behind.
In front of you past the blinding lights are many small tables and chairs. The tables are barren as well as the chairs. They almost have a lonely quality as if waiting eternally for someone to come and sit.
Further past, at the back of the room is a bar. The bar is long stretching from one end of the room to the other. Unlike most bars, this bar is low leveled like a table; a tall stool would tower over the counter. The same lonely chairs are lined in a row facing the bar.
On the back wall of the bar is a group of mirrors. At the base of the mirrors is an etched design that looks like flower petals. The petals are brightly lit glowing from small lights just behind the mirror.
In the middle of this room is one of the same tables and single chair. This chair is pulled out. This is where I sit at night sipping coffee on my brake.
I sit there in the silent, empty bar, waiting like the rest of the space. Never has a bartender come, a costumer entered or an act appeared on the stage. I look around sometimes and I think I see something move, but then I realize it is only my reflection in the mirror. I acknowledge him and go back to drinking my cup of coffee, waiting silently becoming part of the room.