Down, Below
It fell out of the damp cavity between the case and the wall. Sawdust and bits of calcified paper coughed out of the gap, raining onto the cement ground in the basement. I panicked. This would not look good on the condition report. Dusting the debris from its cover – it felt smoothed and compact in my hand, as if it had previously been thumbed through often but was now cold, compressed by abandonment – I set it aside to check the painting. A pair of eyes, black as buttons, stared through the torn bubble wrap, vaguely irritated by my error. I could see no real change to its frame, except perhaps a small tidemark of mildew from where the book had fallen. The tape holding the tissue paper in place had ripped, and the entire piece would have to be re-wrapped. I decided I might as well make a start, and propped it back against the wall, face-to-face with those unblinking eyes.