Humanoid Figure.

As I walk through the living room towards the bedroom, I notice his evidence of him on the dining table. We all leave it around, and the ones who know us best can look through our homes, and immediately determine where we last sat. He sat here, at this table. I sit down on the chair he left askew, without needing to pull out out because he would never push a chair back in place or close a closet. I look at the objects in front of me. I can see his morning, in my head.

*He's coming out of the kitchen, sitting down at the table. He reads the newspaper, as he drinks his coffee, knocking the cup against the dining sheet a little too hard a few times, leaving tiny droplets of milk and sugar for me to clean. His phone rings, and he answers it. As he speaks to whoever is on the other side he begins to gather the clutter on the table into a playing field, the sticks and rubber bands left here by the child become his toys. He fashions them into a humanoid figure. He plays with it; walking it back and forth across the table, making it perform remarkable stunts, tripping it and letting it fall, snapping the bands out of place to see what happens. A leg falls off, and then another. Soon all that remains of the little figure are broken sticks and snapped rubber bands. He puts them back together into a more crude, less functional form of the figure he started with. His call ends, he gets up and walks to the door, taking his bag from the table, knocking over the vase fashioned like a headless person that sits at the table as he does so.*

I pick up the little toy he made and marvel at it, but not at its present form, in my head I am undoing the damage my eyes notice, and trying to picture it as it looked after he finished making it, and before he started playing with. It looks quite crafty yet retains a homely charm, it looks like something your grandmother's friend would teach you to make while your mom oiled your hair on the roof, beside the white sheets where the raw mangoes lay salted under the sun, in preparation to be pickled. I don't know what to do with it. I put it back on the table, and bring a piece of cloth to scrub the stains out of the dining sheet. I put away the empty coffee cup and clear the rest of the clutter that remains.

It's still lying at the table. It makes sense to put it in the garbage, it doesn't have any value, just a broken makeshift toy, but the thought of that makes me little sad. I feel a little sad for all this toys, and I never know what to do with them. They all end up in the wicker basket I don't know what to do with either, I never put them there, but somehow as the objects in the house shuffle around, they get there, like the shirt you don't want to keep but aren't ready to throw so you repeatedly put aside until it ends up in the bottom of a drawer with other useful yet unwanted things, they get there. I figure the broken little humanoid figure will end up there as well, but I have no control over the process that gets it there.

I leave it at the table and walk to the bedroom. I take my clothes off and take out a fresh set from inside my closet. I close the closet doors he left open, and pick the towel up from the chair where he left it, as I make my way to the bathroom. The cat is in here, sitting beside the toilet brush, I shoo her out before I close the door, and she departs after snarling her displeasure at me in a long-winded meow. I run the shower, and as I wait for it to heat, i stand in front of the mirror undoing my hair. I look at myself, at the swollen lips that make my face look crooked, and the patches of red skin on my cheek and my eyelid. I run my fingers over the reflection of my purple shoulder and the dark brown streaks on my neck. I am not really looking at the marks though, in my head I am undoing the damage that my eyes notice and trying to picture myself after he finished making me up, and before he started playing with me. The image doesn't last long, the steam from the shower fills the room and fogs up the mirror. I step into the shower, still holding up my hand like I am holding onto the reflection that was just on my fingertips.

I lean back against the wall as the water burns my skin, I feel tired and lightheaded, like the world is very loud, but I cannot hear it, somehow I can see the noise around me, but all I hear is a steamy fog. I stay here until the hot water begins to run out, then I step out and wipe myself on the towel that is still wet from his use. I wrap it around myself and walk to the room, I dress myself. I take the coffee he left for me on his nightstand and walk to my desk, I sit down and stare at the screen in front of me. I catch glimpses of myself in it, and I don't know what to do with it.

I think of myself, in his fingers, so inanimate and malleable, incapable of resisting even the most destructive assault, and I picture myself as a little doll made of sticks and rubber bands. He breaks all his toys, and I have never seen one of his toys whole. I get up and walk to the dining table, the broken little humanoid figure is still lying there. I pick it up and take it back with me to my desk, I place it against my water bottle. I feel close to it, like I could reach out and hold its hand, and fix it completely, but I can't, because I am compelled by the same power that broke it. I feel like it understands what I am going through. Until he played with it, it used to be whole too.