By Fathi Afifi
In a cabinet, he collects faces. Not just any old faces. Faces he needs. One day, he needs a doctor face. The next day, he needs a lawyer face. Another day, he might need a judge face. He’s a very multi-talented, multi-tasking individual. I suppose he needs those faces.
The cabinet is old, wooden, chiseled with intricate engravings, locked in a musty room with unfinished brick walls and heavy maroon drapes across the windows. It’s got a gold knob that keeps the glass face tightly secured, behind which the faces live. They press against the glass, their eyes following us as we clean the room, dusting the furniture and sweeping the floor. I don’t know how all the dust accumulates, since no one really works or sleeps in here. But there’s plenty of dust, and all too often we’re sneezing until the moment we finish and leave.
The faces don’t speak much. At all, actually. Or, at least, we can’t hear them behind the glass, if they do speak. Their mouths don’t move, but sometimes mustaches bristle or ears wag or eyes wink, when we do dare to look at them. We take dares, dusting the cabinet. I’ve done it many times, but I like to look at my duster and not anywhere else. It’s all I can do something to keep from screaming, but I need the money. And sometimes, those faces look so darn sad behind the glass, I feel bad brushing feathers across their line of vision.
We’ve got a strange master, with a strange line of work, but I can do my job just fine without looking closely at this strangeness. Wouldn’t you agree? I think it keeps me sane.
"Angreek87"
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