To Dust a Man Off

He remained where he was left—the chair in the drawing room—and now there he’s been well past two weeks. He’d get up and go every now and then to take dump and to pee. That was it, and otherwise he remained where he was left. She’d bring him food from time to time and snacks & tea. That was it, and otherwise she read Spills & Spoons when she was home, cooked less and ate more and worked elsewhere at home.

 

‘You don’t feel the need to come fetch him…’ she questioned her buddy on the phone. Her buddy, she comes to her place now and then and when she leaves every time, or most of the time, leaves something she brings along behind. It could be a feather hat, it could be an empty wallet, or it could be a pearl stud—something she’d leave behind, taking the left behind.

 

‘I don’t really know…’ she yawningly answered, failing at her reminiscing, sounding reasonably honest. Every time, or most of the time, when she comes back the next week she’d find what she’d left behind the last week right at the same spot she’d left it and it’d, mostly, be spick-and-span, dusted. You know how swiftly the dust settles on any and all things, especially in cities.

 

‘This thing, it gathers dust awful swift’ said the guy from Dusters & Movers. It’s prudent, she’d thought, to have him moved back to where he belonged. She’s leaving home for a while and this thing isn’t like other things. You know how a ball or a book, when left in one place for too long, never gives you that look when you return home. This thing isn’t like it, not at all like it—it looks you, like there’s something terribly wrong with you.

 

‘I would’ve dusted it myself were it a pen or a notebook’ said the woman, just so the mover man moving the man wouldn’t feel the brunt of the task at hand. For the mover man, though, nothing about the situation seemed to seem strange or in any way unique. You wouldn’t maybe feel that about it were you a man who moved men and women day in, day out.

 

‘Thank you’ she thanked him in earnest, and then he was gone, the good old well-ventilated, wheeled casket-basket fastened to that chariot called truck.

 

The man inside, dusted and wrapped, was to be paid for by the recipient.

 

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