The bedroom holds nothing special, well, except an entire life. The walls, a pale purple-striped monstrosity opposite a solid purple one. The bed, canopied, houses fluffy pillows, a stuffed dog, an unread book. The periwinkle rug lies under the white nightstand. The diary, locked of course, waits to be filled in about the day's events. The window looks around the blinds, trying to feel the excitement hovering about.
Pictures decorate the mirror on top of the dresser on the opposite wall. Faces from work smile and show how happy the resident is there. The polyester uniform -- light blue pants and top -- holds its place precariously on the edge of that same dresser.
Tucked in the pocket, the one on the left, is the ticket purchased with the dollar that didn't buy a drink at break. The walls breath around the ticket, in and out, in and out. Wondering.
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