Scent of a...

She switches off the air-conditioning. The room is too cold.

And quiet.

She turns on the music. She lets the first track play for a minute, then turns it off. The room is better silent.

The room lightly smells of wood and roses, but she is accustomed and doesn't smell it. The room smells like nothing, to her.

Sitting in her black swivel chair, she looks around. All around her lie small stacks of objects - on the desk in front of her, on the chest of drawers behind her, on the floor around her, even on the music keyboard. Her acoustic guitar sits lonely and slightly dusty in a corner. Books, CDs, a pair of nail clippers, a pencil case, a small tin of green tea powder, a water bottle, a bag of cosmetics, more books, some stacked precariously atop others. A bag of small and mostly green gifts.

A lamp with an intricate black shade - she taps it and it starts to glow softly. The black feather boa framing the mirror behind it does not acknowledge the light.

Above the door frame, a clock ticks. Nothing else moves.

She then gets up, goes to the dresser and picks up a miniature bottle of men's cologne. She takes out a Post-it note and dabs a few drops of cologne on it. The musky, masculine scent reaches her, and she pastes the Post-it on the bed post next to her pillow.

Maybe she can go to bed feeling a little less alone tonight.