Numbers
I look at my phone. It reads 4:02 pm. My Writer’s Voice class just ended on a Monday morning. I walk up to my dorm room door and read in block letters 701. I place the key in the lock and turn it until the door handle is loose. I lean into the door with my shoulder and an odor suffocates me. It smells like a combination of sweat and cologne and dirty laundry mixed with instant ramaun noodles that has been covered in a Febreeze scent. As I trip over clothes and a guitar case I attempt to find a spot to put my books down. I have to clear my desk of last night’s fast food and Xbox controllers to find one corner of the desk. All three beds are unmade with towels and shirts stacked at the end of each mattress. The room seems dead, life-less without my two roommates roaming around. I see popcorn on the stained carpet and corn nuts crushed under my dresser. Movie and video game cases lay around like wild flowers. From where I stand I can see at least six Izze and Red Bull cans that have over populated are so called work spaces. The dark brick walls seem haunting but they’re attempted to be covered up by movie and music posters. The trash cans are overflowing with pizza boxes and fruit roll-up wrappers. Technology devices like cell phones, ipods, laptops, stereos, and our 26 inch Vizio TV lay around like shiny candy in a gloomy street. I look at my phone again. It reads 4:05 now. A few minutes of quiet before my roommates come charging in. I think I hear them now in the hallway.