Room with No Title
By Jaden Rose
Adrian. I’d almost forgotten the name by the time he arrived. Not because it took him so long to finally decide what he wanted -- which version of our twisted reality he could bear to stand, or even if any such version existed -- but because I almost didn’t want to remember.
At last he pounded on the coated oak door, and the left strap of his backpack began to slide off his shoulder but he had no penny for his thoughts. He had no spare change, you see, he paid the strap, and all else, no mind.
The blond hair he relied on so profoundly to shade his under-eyes was dark and dripping with rain, disheveled, yet he almost smiled when his lashes blinked to reveal my face against apartment 108’s slate-gray backdrop, its paint job likely done by a drunken man just before 2:00 pm on the day of his birthday. I opened the door past its cracks all the way to the edge of its hinges.
He shook his head slightly to clear the confusion of my invitation -- and maybe to shake free some lost raindrops. He scattered with the drops another almost smile, Adrian was famous for those. The teeth too, I’d almost forgotten. Now reawakening that memory (but before me rather than again in my mind) became my goal as he stepped or stumbled or did some clumsy combination of the two into my empty space -- this room with no title.
He hesitated. Had he forgotten?
Jaden Rose aspires to perfect the craft of poetry, short fiction, and novel writing. Her work has been featured in Rock Reverb, in the Juniper 2018 Anthology, and by Dreamer Magazine.