A Taste Of Peace
~SAGE~
"Are you hungry?"
The question is quiet, delivered from the kitchenette doorway where Archie stands with his sleeves pushed to his elbows and his wire-rimmed glasses catching the overhead light.
His right knuckles are wrapped in the makeshift ice compress I assembled from a freezer tray and a dish towel ten minutes ago, the fabric already darkening with melt water. His expression carries the careful neutrality that I am learning is his factory reset, the default configuration his face returns to after emotional exposure the way a screen returns to its lock page after a period of inactivity.
I nod slowly.
The hunger registers as a secondary concern behind the primary task of arranging my belongings in a corner of his room without overstepping the boundaries of a living arrangement that was established forty minutes ago by plumbing failure rather than mutual agreement. My suitcases are stacked againstthe wall beneath the window, positioned to occupy the minimum footprint possible, the luggage equivalent of a guest who is acutely aware of their temporary status and intends to leave no permanent impression on the space.
I am not unpacking.
The essentials get extracted with surgical precision: toothbrush, toothpaste, face wash, the peppermint shampoo that constitutes the entirety of my haircare protocol, a change of clothes for tomorrow, and the book I have been reading during every spare moment this week. The rest stays in the suitcases, sealed and ready for departure, because unpacking implies settling and settling implies permanence and permanence is a concept that Sage Holloway approaches the way a bomb disposal technician approaches an unidentified package.
His dorm is noticeably more spacious than mine. The common area has room for a full-sized couch, a proper kitchenette with a four-burner stove, and an island counter with stools that would qualify as seating in a restaurant. The ceilings are higher. The windows are wider. The overall impression is of a residential space designed for four people who have not yet arrived rather than four people crammed into a layout meant for two.
"You said I could take one of the empty rooms," I say, nodding toward the two open doorways across the hall. "But those are for your roommates whenever they show up. I'm not going to claim their space just because I'm a temporary refugee from the Valenridge plumbing disaster."
He opens his mouth to argue. I can see the objection forming behind his green eyes, the logical counterpoint assembling itself in a brain that approaches disagreements the way it approaches ice formations: strategically, with three moves of rebuttal prepared before the first word lands.
Then he closes his mouth.
Drops it.
Turns toward the stove.
Smart man. He is learning which battles I will concede and which ones will cost him more energy than the outcome justifies.
"Pasta okay?" he asks over his shoulder, and the transition from host to chef occurs with the seamless efficiency of a man who considers cooking a default activity rather than a special occasion.
"Pasta is perfect."
The kitchenette fills with the specific choreography of someone who knows his way around a stove. Olive oil heating in a pan. Garlic hitting the surface with a sizzle that releases an aroma so immediately, aggressively appetizing that my stomach produces an anticipatory growl I attempt to suppress through abdominal clenching. Water set to boil in a pot that he pulls from a cabinet without looking, his hands knowing the location the way an athlete's hands know equipment.
I take in the simplicity of the place while he cooks.
Bare walls. No posters, no photographs, no personal artifacts occupying the surfaces the way my hockey memorabilia occupied every vertical inch of my room at the Holloway estate. The space is functional without being expressive, inhabited without being claimed. It looks like a hotel room whose guest has been staying long enough to learn where the light switches are but not long enough to leave an impression on the decor.
"Why haven't you decorated?"
He does not turn from the stove. The garlic pops in the pan, filling the silence with its sizzling commentary.
"I don't like putting decorations up in places that are only temporary."
The sentence lands in my chest with a weight that its casual delivery does not account for.
Temporary.
Every place is temporary to him. Every room, every dorm, every surface he occupies exists on a lease he expects to expire. He does not invest in walls because walls are things that belong to buildings and buildings are things that belong to institutions and institutions are things that can revoke your access to them at any point for reasons you cannot control.
I know that logic. I have lived inside it for years. The undecorated rooms of communal housing. The suitcases that never fully unpack. The specific discipline of not getting comfortable because comfort is what you feel right before the floor drops out.
"Doesn't that make you feel odd?" I ask. "Living in a blank space?"
He says nothing.
