Eye

It's not exactly damp, as such. The rain hasn't stopped here in three months and the roof leaks, somewhere. That's okay, but the house is in Andalucia - which is much nearer to Marrakesh than Manchester, by the way. The wall is single-skin, plastered and shoddily skimmed; the plasterer was no master tradesman. The whitewash is discoloured on the whole surface, but there is a stain. An elongated lozenge shape, the high side shorter than the long. So much water has concentrated in the centre of this stain that the whitewash and inexpertly applied plaster has turned black. This darker stain describes a perfect circle. The two combine to form a stylised eye; something painted on Egyptian stucco, or scribbled on a Malaga restaurant napkin by Pablo, in exchange for a decent rioja and grilled sardinas.

After so many days on the bed, it's hard not to feel observed by this all-seeing eye. It seemed to blink a couple of hours ago, but it's also hard to tell dreams from reality – if this existence qualifies as that at all.
Someone came by yesterday, or perhaps the day before. The bell rang, at least twice. Whoever pushed the button left. The front gate is too far from the bed, anyway.

Some things are definitely dreams. Walking down streets, drinking with long departed lovers and animated conversations with relatives. There is no telephone here. It just became too difficult to argue with the phone company. One house so far from the main road. Besides, who would have phoned? Not that it matters any more.

The smell isn't so bad, not now. An empirical argument dictates that it can't be. For there is no-one else to say that it is. Who knows? Perhaps no-one will ever come, not even after the eye blinks for the last time.