A room in Casablanca

The room is on the fourth floor, on the sea side, in a building from the fifties with a lift that works most days. Two windows. Neither of them faces anything worth describing.

At seven the light comes in low and lands on the wall opposite the bed. By eight it has moved down onto the floor. By nine it is gone and the room turns grey and even. That is the light it keeps until the afternoon.

There is a chair with a worn seat. A glass on the floor beside the bed. A door onto the hallway that will not close on its own. The tiles hold the cold of the night until about ten.

The building makes noise. A tap two floors down. The lift. A radio, then no radio. None of it is addressed to you. That is what makes the hour liveable.

Nothing in this room was arranged. That is the whole point of it. Over the back of the chair there is a robe, and it is the only thing here that was chosen.