(A work of flash fiction.)
She vacuums the divot in the carpet where the leg of the chair used to be, frowning at the indentation. She digs the toe of her stocking foot into the hole before standing the vacuum upright and switching it off. Hands on hips, head tilted, she turns her attention to the chair. Angles it into its new location between the windows. Stands back. Nudges it a few degrees right.
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She winds the cord of the vacuum tightly and neatly around its hooks. Wheels the vacuum back to its cubby in the laundry room. Clicks the door closed behind her. The vibration in her pocket halts her in the hallway. With speed and precision, the screen is out of her pocket, fingers swiping.
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RE: Your recent appointment at Eagle Vision
She reads two emails, standing there in the hallway, saves one, and deletes one. She thinks briefly about her Unicorn name: Kinkleinkledinkle. Some things are undeletable.
It’s someone’s birthday.
Someone is dog-sitting.
Three people like The New York Times.
She slips the screen, still glowing, into her pocket.
From the hallway, the chair doesn’t look quite right. She steps across the room and pushes it toward the window an inch. The dog brings a stuffed, still-squeaky-but-headless squirrel to her side.
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Her eyes scan the room, her gaze falling on the four indentations in the carpet where the chair used to be. She drags the chair back to its original position, aligning each leg in each divot, satisfied, yes.
Read. Write. Repeat. 