I opened the door and the room was covered in snow, pouder milk white veil guarding the rails, smelling a gardenias. The mantle was freshly decorared in beige on top, bedazzled with gold. The dining table was rectangular, embroidered tablecloth with stripes on the edge, adorned by yellow tussels. The wall told fiery songs a capella, lyrics to the melodious space. The seats were brand new, puffy on top, legs crossed, embezzled with potpourri, the color of pinot noir. There were flowers sprinkled in every corner of the room; yellow here, beige there, white here, cream there everywhere my eyes landed. It was a sea of sedative colors, a veil of undiscovered pond, antidote to my amen of glory, rival only to that perfect room mom gave me for my sweet sixteenth but joly to the girl next door.