My mouth is filled to the brim. I can taste it in my own material as liquid swirls inside me—the fragrance of something polished and chemically scented stinging my skin. I feel as if my whole being has scattered itself in the gray, waiting to be sucked into the black holes’ ridged teeth as the liquid drips slowly off my sides and onto the metal surface. The drop’s eerie sound makes me burn with certain impatience. I hate the feeling of cold and wet things.
Andrea rarely ever gave me a bath, but Mondo had gotten me dirty the night before. It was best to be still, and quiet and let her figure it out for herself. I liked Mondo and didn’t want her to scold him for doing what animals do. But holding my tongue did no good. “Mondo! What the fuck!”
The agile creature ran from its owner’s presence, retreating to its bed—the sound of a rubbery squeal coming from under his stomach as he lay down. She was dressed in her normal polished clothing; her shiny brown hair pulled neatly below the back of her neck. I imagine Mondo must feel so careless and free running around on the open field, trampling all over garden beds and licking up the fresh tomatoes before they were ripe enough to pick. Everything else he devoured, while his green frog lay unscathed in his bed. I eventually learned to chalk the peculiar nature of dogs up to the plain ignorance irresponsibility gifts to them.
Andrea took off her blazer and rolled up the sleeves of her dark sweater, carefully lifting me, and walking towards the backyard window while her other hand reached for the faucet. I wondered how many of my fellow friends she’d washed in other homes after every showing, when all the buyers left, taking their greasy children with them.
After that horrid experience, she’d gently wiped me down with something hairy, and pale—a kind of feather of sort, placing me back in my place on the mahogany coffee table. I love Andrea. I love her pretty, dark hair and careful hands. I love how warm they feel against my skin, as one looks forward to the freshness of air after having been underwater too long. A metallic freshness overtakes my senses, leaving an odd yet purified feeling all over my body against the roughness of the living room air.
If I’m being honest, I rather disliked the woman from before—her candy blonde hair, and rough hands that made difficulty out of the simplest of things, nearly drew blood the last time I had a good wash. Once, I overheard her tell her assistant not to come back until she understood never to step in front of her during the open house tours. But that was before Andrea took me in. She rolls down her sleeves and puts her blazer back on. I can hear Mondo’s scuffles die down as the door closes behind her.
∞
I can see her shadow from the view connecting the living room to the kitchen. She enters the living room and pats Mondo gently on the head, refilling his bowl with water, rewarding this momentary calm with intentional, light strokes on his side in which an owner reassures its pet they are forever loved. I wonder how well the showing went.
She pauses, gazing ahead at some object in the kitchen—pictureless, and nonexistent in the void of her own thoughts. I strain as hard as I can, willing my curved sides to move just a little. Look at me. But she doesn’t budge. I notice the thinness of her hair, the shadowy skin just below her eyes. For a moment, I think she might cry, but then she looks over at me, fulfilling my wish to render those remnants of exhaustion lighter if only for a moment. Andrea’s eyes expand slightly, livening up her shadowy features; she tilts her head to the side, and lets out one good exhale.
She and George used to tell each other about everything. I always listened and watched from the living room as Andrea told him about different news while washing my other friends for showings. They had a system—she’d explain the strategic ways in which she’d attract prospective buyers, and he, listening intently, would smile and nod with a look of possession in his eyes that seemed to arouse her, rendering the conversation endless. Sometimes she’d sit in front of me, looking at me as she often did, then he’d walk in from the office, and she’d dart her eyes away, reaching for a close distraction.
She picks me up and sets me atop the fireplace, angling the curtains, so the light would glisten and bounce off my sides like she’d done so many times before in previous houses. The warmth of the sun as she continuously rearranged me tickles my ribs, casting an evanescent glow onto the living room wall. She loves me with those beautiful green eyes and the intensity of her gaze, with her serene reaction to the remembrance of my presence. She loves me with her undivided attention and like Mondo, I remain still, imagining that love molding me into something human, someone she could touch and love, and who could comfort her all the same.
On the evening before George’s death, Andrea was reading on the couch, completely immersed in her book when suddenly, she let out a small laugh, looked up at me, and smiled, “If only you could talk, I think I’d feel a lot saner.” George walked in, asking her what was so funny. She closed her book and walked towards him, kissing him lightly on the cheek. “Nothing, George. Just thinking about a potential buyer.” I knew she loved George, but she loved me too.
I noticed everything about her. I remembered everything about her. I can still picture the dull look of sadness across her face, the pamphlet tucked between her forearm and side, smoothing out the photo of the man she’d loved. Stuffing another container of food in the fridge, attempting to find space for it among all the others, entertaining the few friends and many strangers—work associates of her husband—filling up their home, unable to be the grieving wife, but the artful real estate agent with her smoothed black dress and cotton blazer, showing people her husband’s things, arranging their family pictures by the front door, as if she was selling them the home they shared all those years. I knew this was her way of dealing with the grief.
Even now, here she was, still trying one angle after another. I could taste her salty tears falling into my mouth with each switched angle and vanishing reflection. Mondo struts to the back of her legs, moaning alongside his owner. For a moment, in their own way, the two were one in the same—vital and vibrant by design made brittle by the nature of life. In Mondo’s case, his life was wherever she was.
I cannot save her from the paralysis of grief, from the mundane every passing day brings, and with it a certain comfort that the next day will be just as lonely going to work, eating some three meals, attempting to make oneself happy by rearranging the furniture for buyers to perfection, adjusting the curtains—bringing in a light, Andrea herself wished came as easily as letting the light back into her own soul. All I could do was lie there in her gentle, shaking hands.
Shae Noble is an emerging writer currently studying English at Kennesaw State University. Shae’s work focuses on introspective character-driven fiction and non-fiction that explores the tension and quiet conflicts within everyday life. Noble’s writing often centers on moments of emotional transformation, identity, and the subtle gender/cultural dynamics between characters. Noble often voices the hard realities of life through third person omniscient as well as through a more personal writing style such as stream of consciousness techniques. When not writing, Shae studies literary fiction and utilizes her psychology minor to draw inspiration from both fields to improve storytelling skills.