Like the smell of carpet
The fan above me was turning. Slowly whomp, whomp, whomping. The chain linked from the engine down in a pull cord to the wood knob was rattling and the engine was making a dry grinding sound.
I was surprised I was still here. The carpet was leaving marks on my check.
I'd had a pillow, last night. Well, I'd had two t-shirts bunched up into each other and bunched up under my head, but now they were flat. Now they were stretched out flat, looking like they were missing bodies. There was a sweat stain in the middle of one in the shape of my head.
There was the bed in a frame and the bed on a box spring on the floor. After that there was the mattress on the floor, and then the fold out couch and the couch. Then this, the floor. This was the bottom. When I woke up to the fan and the morning seeping through the carpet on the concrete pad, someone was asleep on the couch and on the mattress and on the bed in a frame. They are all here, I thought, we are all here. The place smelled of sweat and carpet.
The cold was on and the heater kicked on and the dust began to burn in the vents. There was orange juice out in a carton on the counter. It tasted warm and like the pulp was starting to turn.
I was surprised I was still here, but then where else would I be.