If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things

I looked at the objects that make it my room, the calendar on the wall, the colour of the curtains, the photographs.

I thought about all the other people who’ve slept in this room before me, about what traces they’ve left behind.

It took me a long time to get to sleep.

And when I woke up in the morning the room felt different, haunted, and I had to get out of bed quickly.

It had stopped raining, finally, but the street outside was still wet, swathes of dirty water across the road, sodden pages of newsprint glued to the pavement like transfers.

Perhaps the words will soak into the stone I thought, yesterday’s stories imprinted like cave paintings, like a tattoo.

I left early for work, I didn’t want to stay in my flat after the previous day.

I couldn’t face cleaning up the broken plates or reading those leaflets again.

I got dressed and slipped out of the door without any breakfast, down the steps and past the back door of the shop downstairs.

There was a cold wind, but it was a dry wind and it felt good on my skin and I sucked big mouthfuls of it into my lungs.

There was a girl with a striped overall standing by the back door of the shop, smoking, I’ve seen her there before.

She smiled and said hello and I was surprised so I think I only nodded.

I walked along the main road, the wind blowing across my face, the traffic steaming slowly past me in fits and starts and stops.

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