In the corner

In the corner behind me, a caged bird sings. An afternoon breeze billows the delicate, green curtains, cools the warm summer afternoon. From the deep chair where I am sitting I can see, through a southern facing window, the trees saluting the breeze; their leaves reflecting the sun like a million mirrors. Groove Armada’s Down by the River plays like a soundtrack.
The room is cool because of its white marble floors, slightly dark because of its position in relation to the sun. The chair in which I am sitting in is green and covered in soft velvet. Most everything in the room is green. The table next to me is green, the glass out of which I am drinking a martini is green, the olive in the martini is green. Condensation forms on the glass, marks its territory on the table, making the green darker. This room is my mental greenhouse, fertilizer for my soul.
It is a small room with only a few bits of furniture. It would feel bare were it not for the tall, wooden bookcases brimming with books that line the walls. The smell of the books - peppery, dusty paper - permeates the room and when I breathe in it settles thick on the back of my tongue.
The smell makes me comfortable, and combined with the warmth of the afternoon and the martini I soon begin to feel drowsy. As I settle back into my chair and feel the alcohol buzz through my body, numbing it. I am aware of my teeth and feel myself sinking deeper into my chair. In the corner behind me, a caged bird sings.