He stared at it. He stared so that he did not have to look at the others in the room, afraid of the smug comprehension that might be in their eyes. He stroked his chins and wine glass stem. They were waiting for him to say something. But what should he say? ‘Interesting’? ‘Quite unusual’? ‘Deeply insightful’? ‘A damning indictment of our times’? It was none of those things. It was a wall. ‘Bricks and Mortar’. Even the bloody title didn’t say anything. He realised, not for the first time, that he needed to stop doing this. The older he got the less and less he understood these things. Empty white boxes stacked one atop the other. Fake crack lines on a floor. Diamond encrusted skulls. He was tired. And old. The wankers were still waiting.
“Well, I think we’ve found the next Turner haven’t we?”
(My entry for Mslexia’s flash fiction segment. Theme: Bricks and Mortar)