PJ's Room

PJ, my friend of just a few weeks, has invited me to his place for coffee. He is a keen connoisseur of the bean, so it will actually be a steaming cup of Kenyan Peaberry, not a euphemism.

He's in the kitchen now, brewing up some hot black magic and I'm left alone in his room...

This odd little triangular space is all he has to call his own. The kitchen and bathing facilities are shared with other single men of limited means that share this hostel with him.

The sun is pouring in through the open window, the air smells of summer, and a bird is singing somewhere nearby out of sight...

I look around. It's all pretty unremarkable, clean and tidy – PJ is particular about cleanliness and order – I like this new thing I have learned about him.

We engage in the usual call-and-response which establishes that it's no thank you to both milk and sugar...

The single bed has been made, but is just a little rumpled where PJ has been sitting on it: there's only one chair and with quiet but insistent gallantry, he has given it to me. There is a small desk, cheap-looking but serviceable, and PJ's books are in a neat pile on top of it. I have a greedy eye for books, so I quickly snack on the spines. Most of the titles are concerned with ancient Egypt – a passion of PJ's. His Dungeons & Dragons books are there too. That's how I met him: at the local Wargamer's Club. We clicked within minutes of meeting.

The splash of coffee...

One wall of this room is taken up with a large built-in wardrobe-cum-vanity unit, complete with mirror and tiny washbasin – all spotless.

The tinkle-tinkle of spoon in cup...

Suddenly, all sound rushes away, and I am seized with an overwhelming impression, like a silent thunderclap. There is great pain here and tremendous loss, and a flash of barred windows. This man, my new friend, has spent time locked away somewhere – in a prison or hospital, I'm as sure of this as if the room had spoken aloud.

And just as suddenly, in the interval between tick and tock, the bird is singing again outside the window and PJ is pressing a mug of something that smells like heaven into my hand.

He is smiling, unconcerned that I have been alone here in his space, reading his books and his room, and oblivious to what has passed between us.