Click, clack. The freshly mopped tile floor is rather noisy. “Right, it’s still room 501.” I think to myself.
I open the door. Beep beep. The bed is occupied.
Light streams in from the window and beautiful puffy clouds float outside. I’d probably eat them if they were fried.
I blink.
The room has no windows. It’s foggy inside, like someone left their Halloween smoke machine on.
“Oh. I guess this is a different room,” I think.
The couch by the bed looks comfy enough, so I sit down.
A voice, coming from nowhere in particular. “Here, take the ice cream. It’s too sweet for me.”
The cup is starting to get gooey. I poke at it with the little bamboo spoon from the back of the cup, but the spoon falls right in.
That’s the problem with ice cream; it’s too sweet and it melts too fast.
I blink again.
The tray sits untouched on the table. The ice cream is warm. Not the icy wetness that I’m so used to.
That night, I dream vividly, like I always do.
The vast boundless ocean stretches out before me.
I stare at the smooth, featureless, white surface, the flimsy little bamboo spoon in my hand.
I think it might be ice cream.
