Ne pas s'entrepeneur du cours de sa vie, est réduire l'existence à un simple accident

triplex/wednesday last week

Tell me.

I feel better the moment I walk in through the blue door.

Blue is a calming colour.

The smells of long ago Sundays and flowers freshly picked this morning on the way to Church.

That’s a complicated smell.

A smell of security, perhaps.

What’s the floor like?

Solid; it’s probably the most solid part of the room. Stone tiles. The walls look like paper, unable to hold the dark beams overhead.

Is there a radio?

In the corner. Classical music plays softly. It stands on the sideboard next to branches of Mimosa sitting in a former medicine bottle.

Fresh?

This morning.

There’s a table of magazines?

It’s covered by a cotton scarf; you know, the ones the nomads wear in the desert.

The magazines are on top of that?

Piled, falling, re-arranged, re-placed. I read the walls.

The walls?

Yes. There are hand written quotations pinned one above, one next, another. Philosophical thoughts written in the same careful style that the doctor uses on his prescriptions – if one is needed.

Will it be?

Probably not. All we will do is talk, probably laugh, and then he will stick pins in me. Then I will sleep.

Hang on, someone is coming. There’s a shadow on the other side of the glass in the centre of the blue door.

Editors note - at this point our two protagonists are interrupted by the entrance of a small man wearing a hand made woollen jumper and an outlandish moustache, carrying an upside down, white umbrella and a brown, half full bottle of olive oil. He looks confused that we are here. He has the keys to the office.