One of the assignments the instructor gave the class was to describe a room we’d lived in. One writer described her tiny dorm from when she was working on her master’s degree, another one described his bedroom in his parents’ home.
For me, the one place that stood out was a flat I rented during my year living in Guildford, England. Here it is.
The color greeted me next. Pink walls, pink carpet, pink bedspread.
“Are you sure there’s nothing else to rent?” I said.
“In your price range? Only the house near the train.”
Near the train? She should have said, “In the backyard, by the kitchen window, out the dining room.” So close the house had rumbled when it passed.
The dolls, maybe fifty of them, greeted me at last, all wide-eyed, staring, watching my every move.
I sighed. “All right. I’ll take it, but they have to go.”