Strange Room

It's a Saturday afternoon, four days til Halloween, ten days til the election, and thirteen days til my departure date from New Orleans. I'm sitting in a bedroom with black walls but ample daylight, thanks to a bank of dirty windows. My computer faces the windows, beyond which is a cinder block wall swarming with thick greenery and flowers. Despite my supposed love of plants, I don't know any of their names. A cold front moved in last night, bringing intermittent cloud cover and a pause in the endless stupid summer of New Orleans autumn, but the sun broke through around 3 pm and the late afternoon is now as golden as the rest of October has been.

I'm in a stranger's room, some man I've never met. He works in the film industry and is in New Jersey or something doing filmy things. The only communication I've had with him, ever, is a single text message today asking him when he's coming back to reinhabit his room. His things look hip. He has rows of books I've never read but have always wanted to or at least was told that I should want to, a slide projector, ceramic knickknacks, a set of weights, a piece of Zapatista memorabilia, and a big framed black and white photo of a man smoking a cigarette in the French Quarter and looking cool. Him? I'm not sure. He does have three mirrors in this room, though.

How did this happen to me?