Coffee And Walls

Coffee And Walls

The wall was looking at me. I was only looking back.

It stared at me intently, like it had something it desperately wanted to share with me. A secret shame of some sort. I waited for it to make a move. It didn't. I couldn't help feeling slightly disappointed but I had to remember that it was a wall. They weren't used to these sorts of things.

I sat behind a metal table in a chair so worn that leaning back posed a health hazard. The wall still wasn't saying anything so I took the liberty of examining its features. A large family portrait hung on the left upper corner, displaying three sombre faces of people who obviously didn't enjoy having to wait three hours for the paint to merge into what I was seeing now. Behind them spread a mustard based wallpaper with sharp, scarlet lines running vertically to the floor. Or to the ceiling. It didn't matter. The wall still wasn't talking to me. I decided to take a different approach. A change of tactic, if you will.

I offered the wall coffee. 

I could sense the wall being slightly suspicious of my new approach, and cautiously declined. I won't lie, it was a very disappointing response. No matter. This wall would speak eventually. I took a sip of the boiling hot cup of that dark, bitter drug before throwing my arm forward and spilling the contents directly onto the wall's face. It kept silent. 

I wish these walls would talk.