The Boiler Room at Unit 22

[squirmelia]

She gazed into every puddle that night, searching for elastic bands to replace the hair ties that slithered away from her plaits into the dark, into the rain.

Before that, she was told that she looked too young to go inside the pub where the people she knew were, so she peeked at them through the window, getting more and more drenched, as they laughed, as the minutes passed.

At Unit 22, she found it compelling to watch people mosh with the sea as a backdrop, but when she tried to leave, she found herself lost and ended up in (what she presumed was) the boiler room, staring at the silver ceiling, crawling underneath the pipes as if it were an adventure playground. It reminded her somehow of Neasden bunker, but without the rust, without the mould. To her, that night, the room was exciting and even after she left and had been slightly scolded by security guards on the way out, she giggled at her previous enthusiasm that now seemed absurd.

Comments

[squirmelia.livejournal.com]

(http://pics.livejournal.com/squirmelia/pic/000015re/)

[remotepush.livejournal.com]

(http://www.flickr.com/photos/99275942@N00/123347508/)

[(Anonymous)]

Next, you must imagine a piece of cardboard, brown and slightly corrugated, that she might have picked up on the way home, but is too lazy to photograph.