The Texture of the Wall

Laying on the floor beneath the window, staring up at the painted plaster, little cracks run through the goosebumps in the paint. I can read where the wall is hollow where it is brick, by running the tips of my nails across its gibberish braille. In certain spots, the paint is almost smooth and slightly darker, polished by years of rough feet, the action of the mattress trying to remove the braille. To the left there is a stain running down the wall. It is easy to imagine a tomato slammed there like a bird flying into a pane of glass, and not breaking through, slid to the floor, but the truth is, it was a can of soup, the kind with a pop top, unheated, drunk straight from the can, that spilled and would not come clean.