The Other Room by Mayme Killeen

They’re talking about me—I know it. Their words fill my ears with honey—thick and sweet and tantalizing. Muffled, though. Only abstract shapes and sounds ring out as if the architect of their conversation has built their world under water. I crane my neck, pushing and willing my ears to open. Words, occasionally phrases, poke out like sticks under the wide and glorious picnic blanket of this exchange. Yet, their watery whispers remain fragmented, lost to the elements of the other room.

I blink, and, as if in an instant, the murky veil cracks open. Syllables stretch their tentacles and pull themselves into focus. I tilt my head forward, peering into the shadowed depths. I think I’ve been struck by a sunbeam. Filled with the strength and power of the all-knowing sun, I step forward, pushing open the folds to discover what lies before me in the other room.