It was an odd room. Cold in retrospect.

I read steadily through the day perched on the top step of our large house. A house in a constant state of flux.

Through the cracked door, my eyes were drawn to the odd structure within. A bed, a desk and a work table all built with metal pipes, a maze of sorts. Several plastic milk crates held items of clothing and empty wine bottles.

My stair became cold as the sun began to set. I squinted to finish the last chapter. My next book sat close by waiting to be opened.

The dinner table was set. Candles lit the unfinished room as always and heat radiated from the large kitchen fireplace. I quietly sat next to him. George was his name. He was an odd man. Cold in retrospect. He laughed at my white tube top and flat chest but was quickly interrupted by the barking of a dog outside; George's dog. His name was Red. George was always angry with Red.

Years passed and red dogs riddled my sleep. Red dogs crying as dogs do when in pain.

George had long gone. He was an odd man. Cold in retrospect.

Paige HoobanRed, booksComment