Imagination of the Yellow Room

My hand lingers on the door frame, atoms of space between my fingertips and the shiny wood. My eyes skim the room from side to side, window to window. It’s small but it feels big at the same time. Everything bathes in the light of a crystal chandelier that hangs in the middle of the room and sparkles look at me, aren’t I amazing? There’s a bit of dust on it though, as if the room is never used but someone thought to turn it on a moment before I arrived. Or maybe all crystal chandeliers have a bit of dust on them, now that I think about it. On the far wall is a yellow couch that sags a bit in the middle, maybe from the weight of all of the pillows on it. The pillows are all yellow and white, all the same shade of yellow and the same shade of white as each other. Some of the pillows are all yellow or all white, but some of them have zig-zags of yellow on a white background or polka dots of white on a yellow background. I think there might be cat hair on the couch and instinctively, my eyes dart to the dark shadows under the couch, scanning for a pair of eyes or a whisk of a tail. Nothing. The air doesn’t smell like a cat, either. It smells like brownies and vacuum cleaners. There’s no sign of any cat hair on the other two chairs in the room, either. They’re both dark brown leather, the color of coffee beans. The first chair has a hand-knit yellow blanket draped a bit carelessly over one arm and the second has a neatly folded triangle of quilty peaking over the back. The quilt is themed with yellow things, sunflowers, sunshine, and bumblebees, and the fabric looks like it would be the kind that you would cuddle up with and fall asleep in. I can just imagine it rubbing against my face. The rug on the floor is braided, coiled into an oval that disappears under the couch. It's a pattern of white and, just like the rest of the room, yellow. The wooden panels underneath it are weathered and sunbathed, making them much lighter than they started out. There are a few scratches on the floor that make me think there must be a cat somewhere. Maybe I’ll find it in the next room. My fingers detach their barnacle-like grip on the door frame and return to the pocket of my sweatshirt. My socked feet pad onto the next room.