I didn't sleep well. Pressing crowds of people dominated my dreams and nightmares. The noise of the crush of hundreds of thousands drifting up from the streets below our windows colored what little sleep I did get.
Daytime now, and I stumble through my routines, breathing easier now that everyone hides from an almost pathological fear of skin cancer. The only sounds from the streets are machinery and vehicles, all far away.
The sun's rays drift through the blinds, casting harsh lines on the hardwood floor. Dust raised by my sweeping floats through the light, thousands and millions of motes all orbiting each other, fashioning rough ellipses as they slowly circle to the floor, gravity wrestling them to earth, or spiraling crazily upwards with unseen currents of air.
I stick the broom under an old radiator, pull some king-size dust bunnies out, then lean the handle against the wall and limp over to the table where the others are gathered. Jason eases his wheelchair over a little, giving me room to pull the old kitchen chair up to watch the game. Hearts, a game I learned to hate a long time ago and very far away.
I sit and rest my knees, only half paying attention to the game in progress. My eyes dance from cards to the rest of the room, wondering at the stark brevity of this place where old wood has replaced the steel and plastic and ceramic of years gone by, this new home for the five of us. Old boxing ring in the middle, ropes long gone and mat torn and tattered. Two old wooden benches sitting on the scarred floor, a three-legged stool lying near one of the benches. A water fountain that no longer works.
On the other side of the ring, five beds--cots, really--with curtains hung between them to give some sense of privacy, as though a room this large could not afford any one of us the space we had come to crave, but still give us the company we cannot live without.
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