It had the potential to be loud, though. Multiple TVs playing games all at once would be a real racket. An arcade would probably have been more apropos -- and maybe it'd been that when he'd been a kid, someone who'd thrived on sociability. But Richie had learned how to shut himself in over the years. How to be alone even in a crowd of people.
It wasn't a snowy hedge maze, but it wasn't exactly a place that cultivated public relations either. This was his place, apparently, and he didn't make it user friendly for anyone -- not even really himself.
I dunno, he said, of remembering where anything was. Because he supposed, just like in real life, he couldn't always keep up with his own order of things, either. There were games on high up shelves that he was sure was dusty, had things in them that were forever lost.
He turned, fingers brushing over the spines of all the cases. How? he wanted to know. Because how could he find something that he didn't really know, that he hadn't even been sure existed before this -- even if he'd had a suspicion?