I love empty furniture stores. There’s something eerie and oddly comforting about these spaces, well-lit in all their sleek contrivances, dusted and decorated to mimic the Intimacy of Home.
I eye the grey couch tag that reads Fabric Care. To clean spills, it says, “start by blotting using a clean absorbent cloth.” (Dull hum overhead.)
It feels like an empty art gallery, almost, with all its space and displays and designs and decor. A sort of quiet refuge. When I am overwhelmed by people and parties and sights and sounds, I go to empty art museums. I stare at paintings and pretend I’m there, in the room or meadow or block of colored space. And it’s like being absorbed in a book or plot, except instead by empty space.