A Room Measured by Its Window
One sash, one chair, a lamp for the hour when the street goes blue, and the case for a smaller life indoors.
One good window
The room is not large enough to have a style. It has a window, which is a better thing to have. The sash sticks on the left side in the damp months and rises cleanly in a dry week, a personality I have stopped trying to correct with tools.
The chair faces the glass, not the door. This was an accident of delivery — the men set it down and I never asked them to turn it. Conversations happen sideways. The street happens head-on, which is the ratio I prefer.
The lamp, not the overhead
I do not use the ceiling light after October. It tells the truth too loudly. The ceramic lamp on the side table tells a smaller truth: this corner, this hour, the arm of the chair, the fact that someone intends to stay. Dusk does the rest of the decorating.
A room can be furnished with attention more cheaply than with furniture, though the chair does help.
How to measure it
Estate agents would count the square metres and apologise. I count whether a person can sit, read, and still see the weather change its mind. By that measure the room is extravagant. I keep a notebook on the sill and mostly do not write in it. The window is already taking notes.
