I don’t think it’s been touched in a while. There’s a faint indentation, just a straight line, as if a finger was swiped through the thick layer of dust and inspected. But another layer just settled right on top, and the difference between the once-touched and never-disturbed bits are nearly indistinguishable.
I have this urge to clean it, to wipe it free from the desk, leaving myself a clean surface upon which to work. Or rather, upon which to settle my eyes, as this work shift is proving less than entertaining. I reach for the paper towel roll, unraveling two large swaths of the downy-soft fabric. My finger is poised, quivering above the trigger of the disinfectant spray bottle. With a firm squeeze, I’ve launched droplets of cleaning solution into the air, flying towards to dust-laden desk like tiny kamikaze soldiers, holding out their swords and preparing for battle. The dust particles flair up just a bit at the disturbance in the air when the droplets hit the desk, pinning their enemies down with their soaking qualities. The downy fabric in my fingers drifts down upon the desk, and for a moment, as the cloth makes contact, I can see the dark imprint of dust, of dirt, of time having passed right by without anyone noticing. I try not to think of it too much as I swipe the cloth back and forth across the faux-wooden surface. It’s clean now, all taken care of.
I sit back in my chair, cross my ankles, and wait for the next bit of time to lay a hand and leave a mark on my clean desk.
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