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What do you care anyway? I get lonely sometimes. In the morning she kept trying excuses out on me: “It’s your sister’s. I set it by the couch where my mother was sleeping.
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But, once it was out-in my hand, in the clear-I realized I was holding a glowing rubber phallus, curved at the end with a cluster of tentacle-like feelers at the tip. I reached in to pull it out and when my hand wrapped around it I thought, Oh, of course, it is a flashlight. Cleaning for my own mother over a Thanksgiving holiday I spent home from college one year, I noticed something lit up within the plastic laundry bin in her bedroom. The thing in Sharon’s bedroom is particularly amazing, but sex toys are actually the most common things I find when sorting through other people’s stuff.
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The cat is in the room, purring and rubbing against my leg I stare at him suspiciously and imagine that he has something to do with this thing. Who is Sharon, really? Who is Ben? Could Sharon be in a cult of some sort, or maybe it is an artifact-but that does not explain its location right beside the bed. The cat, the windows, the scarves-even the house itself-are called into question. With the discovery of the words, everything in the room is changed, suddenly suspect. I drop the thing back on the bedside table where I found it and stand frowning at it while I think. Just barely I make out:Įcstasy, Prolonged, Unbridled, Partner, Bloodīlood? I squint at it. Most of the words are illegible and I try hard to decipher them. Picking it back up, I notice it has a label-faded and torn. I put the thing down, shrugging, but can’t seem to move on with my work until it’s been identified. I love the feeling of rooting around through a stranger’s belongings never knowing what I will find, what clues I might uncover that will offer a little glimpse of their past.
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I like my job it pays well, nearly twelve dollars an hour, plus tips-sometimes there are tips-and I am left alone. I take a yellow one and a blue one with white polka-dots. Over the phone, Ben suggested I choose a couple of the scarves from her closet: she has an incredible collection of scarves, all from France and made of silk. Sharon is turning 80 this weekend and has of late been forgetting to eat, so she is being moved in with her son, Ben. I’m cleaning houses for the recently departed, dying, or permanently relocated. When I swing it around, the ball is heavy I flip it side to side and feel the weight of it bend the metal. When I tug on the blade, I find that it is stuck good and tight into the ball. The rubber ball is hard, cracked, the size of a tennis ball, and a dusty blue color. Does Sharon have enemies that might sneak into her bedroom in the night? The blade is dull and rusty, rounded on the edges, and three inches protrude from the handle. I think it must be something she defends herself with-but from whom, I cannot decide. It has a worn wooden handle which is about four inches long. I pick it up, feel its weight, run my finger along the cracks. Maybe she keeps it like that to keep the blade sharp. At first I think it must be a knife with its pointy end stuck into a rubber ball.