antti

Antti had an obsession for rooms the way some people had an obsession for music or hats. He liked hats, too, especially the brown fedora his droogs gave him last year, but he only liked them a little--rooms were his passion. Sometimes years went by before he found a room he truly loved. It wasn't even something he could identify, really, just a certain sensation, a certain texture and taste, that made him feel at home in some rooms. Most felt like prisons: square, oblong, round, upholstered, wood-paneled, swathed in tapestry--it didn't matter. Some rooms have life, and some don't.

On Tuesday, Antti wandered into the dorms at a local university. He entered a gray lounge with peeling walls and overstuffed green chairs lined up from wall to wall in rows of three. The room was drab and dingy, and the chairs were ripped and faded, but a hidden energy crackled beneath the surface. Antti took off his hat in reverence. He strode to the front of the room, sat down on the first row of chairs, and held his hat in front of him like a steering wheel.

A girl walked into the room just then, barefoot, dressed in black culottes, a scarlet sleeveless craftan, and a gorgeous golden-brown Afghan shawl. She looked like a Moroccan street princess, and he loved her for it. He waved with his right hand, his left still gripping the steering wheel/hat. "The bus is leaving, miss."

She smiled, mischievous and knowing, and sat cross-legged on the cushions beside him. "Is this seat taken?"

"No," Antti replied, keeping his eyes on the road like a good driver. "I saved it just for you."