A Delicate Monster Keith Noonan
Streams of light pour through the window. The dust is dancing again. I’m a version of myself, standing on the floor. My hair is black and I’m wearing clothes I never owned. My miniature hand, the size of a quarter, rests against the legs of my table; I catch the snowflakes on my tongue. No, that’s flesh. My flesh. I’m back in my bed again, full-sized. The shiny flakes speed their spiral as I stir. And there they are. The wall spots are back, I’m sure of it. It’s as if they regenerate more quickly each time I cover them. At least I caught them early; time for a cleaning and a fresh coat of paint. The brush and pan are by the window. I look over at Christina’s apartment when I grab them. She’s not home yet, won’t be for another five hours. Six o’clock. The place looks so lonely when she’s not there. I set about sweeping, starting at the corner closest to the window, working from the wall to the center of the room, then back. I have the blinds shut now. The filth in the air is too much, otherwise. By the time I’ve made my way around the room three times, there are seven silver hairs and a mound of dust in my tray. Its contents are emptied into a clear, zippable bag, which I place in the cabinet next to my table (above the paint, but beneath my clothing and dry goods). I count the remaining cans of Crown Gallery White paint. There are nine. I grab two and begin to re-sanitize the walls of my room. My muscles relax as new washes over old, and tighten again as I observe the areas yet to be covered. There. It’s finished and I’m alive again. The walls are perfect and sanitary, and there isn’t a damned yellow spot to be seen. I think this might be the best job I’ve ever done; my lines are smooth and even. It’ll be like this forever. No, I don’t know that. But it looks so lovely I can’t imagine it otherwise. I take deep breaths, savoring the smell of success and admiring the shiny wetness. I used nearly every drop in the can. The attention to detail shows. I put five of the dirt filled bags, and the contents of the bathroom trash, into the paint can and get ready to place them in the wastebasket at the end of the hall. There’s no sense making unnecessary trips outside. The air is even more delicious when I return. Those short, stifling moments in the hallway provide just enough distance 110