Glass Tiles

He laid back on the sofa at the Yard. Sprawled. He surprised himself with his bohemianism. His smile was private – no one could see it.

He should get up now, she would be here soon with their order.

The green bulb.

Hanging on the brick wall. What would be the phrase to explain how the bricks were laid? Anyone would understand if he said, “brick wall”. But, for someone who had never seen a brick wall? They were deferred-aligned. So, someone may not have seen a brick-wall – but they sure would have to possess a strong vocabulary.

The green bulb.

Crompton. 240V. Made in Europe, it said. Europe wasn’t even a country. Is this the new expression of continental identity? Europe as a single whole geographical location? A single conscious identity defined by a glass-enclosed filament?

Up, above the S-shaped snake holder of the bulb, was a binary pattern of small translucent glass tiles of the footpath that he sat below. People above walked on the glass tiles – he was in the basement below the footpath. He imagined the absence of the glass tiles. No one would walk on anything that is absent; they would carefully choose to tread on the opaque brick and stone tiles. No one keeps a foot on something unknown. They always feel they will fall down. He laughed a hearty private laugh that no one heard. Down below in the basement where he sprawled happily was a better place than the pavement where the presence of the glass tiles kept shivering people walking the same way – the way they have done for years.

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First appeared on Seeing isn’t believing