This World

The house is freezing. I don’t complain. It isn’t my house. But I will do something about it. Close the door, open the window. Let the humidity in.
I’m supposed to get a job here. I’m not even looking. I changed my mind. I look out of the window and I know why. It isn’t that I wouldn’t survive here. I don’t want to.
My teeth stop to hurt once the window is open. The heat. It’s comforting. And I wonder is this body so deprived of body fat that it refuses to withstand temperatures below twenty five degrees. Perhaps. I keep a glass of full cream milk at my side. Maybe that will help.
Everything in this house is at my disposal I have books and movies and internet and food. I don’t even have to cook or wash my plate after. Anything that isn’t here, I can have home delivered. But this house misses something.
It misses a woman and therefore routine.
This absence of routine doesn’t seem to tell on anyone but me.
The pink of this room. It hits me. But then I remember. The owner of the room is sixteen years old. She isn’t here. How does it matter? Least of all to me.
A stark world it is. This world without people.