After Work

A tired squeaky toy on the divan. One of its eyes is missing. A well-used enormous ball near the shoe rack. I step on it inadvertently, and it goes, “squeeeaaak.” I jump, and land on a brown, wet, stuffed toy. Its head is empty. Little cloud-like pieces of cotton lie around it, a graphic evidence of what was in its head once.

A long chew stick, the lego in my furry friend’s world. I drop my bag, collect and drop the remnants in a tub, and a pain shoots through my foot. The lego.

Today’s newspaper is shredded. A celebrity’s head is in the balcony, her bosom is in the kitchen. I cannot find her legs. I dismiss the thought to search for the other parts of her body, for I am not sure if she had any really. The house is now devoid of awww-inducing, dangerous elements.

The miscreant walks out from a bedroom. Her eyes are laden with traces of an adventurous day — fatigue, smugness, and slumber that is reluctant to fade away. She climbs into my lap, and heaves a big sigh. I breathe a whiff of love. Deeply.

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