by Karleigh Frisbie Brogan
The master bedroom, fulsome and delicately lit, had the illusion of being near water: a ceiling that rippled with sunset, the coolness of dim afternoon. In here we put our bed, a large ship of blonde wood, of brimming pillowtop. This was an adult bedroom, correct, decent, full of secrets kept in nightstand drawers and concealed between smoothed sheets. Rooms like these are recreated for catalogues and showrooms, Platonic forms on which our dreams are based.