His arms reflect his existence. They are strong. They pick
things up, make sense of them, and set them down again at a different angle, in
a way that they can now be dealt with, picked up by weaker arms to be held and
to be used.
He picks me up. He turns me upside down and shakes them best
bits from me, leaving my ‘Top10’ assets neatly lined up in single file on the
floor at his feet. He sets my shell back down to one side and that too crumples
into a pile beside him, my face turned upwards to him, staring. He picks up
each piece from the floor and holds it in his cupped hands; he turns it over
and over, peering inside the nooks and crannies, running his thumbs over the
cracks, working it out. Then, not breaking it, not stretching it, he begins to
work on it. He moulds it with his hands, rubs at the edges, using his index
fingers as tools, altering the smallest elements. Slowly, without irrational
movement and without hesitation, he works his way systematically through each
item at his feet. Each time he works only until he is satisfied. He comes to
the last. My body is the last, the shell that was the packaging for all of the
other parts. He stops. He studies my upturned face. He does not move towards
it. He turns away.
In the same manner as the alterations were made, he puts me
back together. He takes the items from by his feet and piles me full once more
until I stand next to him once again. He checks me, swinging my arms, rotating
my neck, touching my lips, ensuring that I am still the same. He picks me up at
the waist and raises me in the air slowly, running his eyes down my body, over
my face. He places me back down gently in front of him. Satisfaction.
He turns his back on me and walks away.
