Upon Returning From A Midnight Theatre Rehearsal

I jam my key into the lock and turn it clockwise two full rotations, pushing down on the metal handle and quietly prodding the door open. A single fluorescent light sneers down from the ceiling, basking the girl farthest from where I stand in a glow that for anyone else would be described as "unflattering" but for her merely elicits an acknowledgment of how crappy the electricity is here. Everyone present sleeps, with the exception of my exhausted self, hovered in the doorway, silently removing this tiny metal concrete password from its rite of passage and clicking the door shut behind me. The girl closest to the door hides beneath mountains of covers; she does not want to be observed and I frankly am too tired to consider acting otherwise. My own bed, untouched and yet to be mussed, has much unfortunately fallen victim to the ranks of two rather noisy sleepers. From one end I hear the occasional passage from an airy, nasal sonata. The other end presents for me a steady, throaty performance muffled slightly by a strategically-placed textbook upon which the performer's head now rests, though likely unintentionally.

I am in between these two, and I jointly occupy the middle of all three.
They surround me in slumber
yet I feel strangely
unprotected and
alert.