Is this my room?  I can’t remember now which one she’d shown me into when I first arrived.  I tiptoe in as though I don’t belong here. Like a thief.  My small suitcase stands against the wall – a silent sentry – so I suppose it’s mine, after all.

The room itself glows a dull gold from a bamboo lamp which hangs low from the corner of the room.  Wooden floor, painted walls and white sheets all take on the same hue.  The floor, at odds with its warm colour, is cold underfoot. 

Folding back the wooden shutters, I open the window wide.   Beyond is a sheet of inky blue-black night  Suddenly, the room  begins to pulse with the incessant buzzing of crickets. 

I move to shut the window – but then it happens. 

The smell of night trails in.  Lazily, slyly, it fills up my nostrils.  Try shutting the window now, it mocks. That unmistakable smell of wet leaves, damp earth, dew and night packs itself into the small, spare room already crowded with the crickets’ vibration. There is little room for me.

I slide beneath the crisp sheets  and my feet find a heating pad radiating bliss from the bottom of the bed.  

With the covers up to my shoulders, the last thing my mind notes is the scent of green dancing through my hair.

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