The drapes close, hiding the screen like it’s a secret pool. With customers out the exits, Philip sweeps the veneer of decades-old popcorn grease and soda stains.
Finished, he brings up the whiskered head and flicks away the bits. The broom sighs, leaning its business end on Philip’s shoulder, its bristles pecking his cheek.
As they dance, Philip’s feet smooch the sticky floor, the broom’s handle tapping out the humming beat.
Later, in the dark closet, the broom can’t stay put away.
Inflamed from what has happened, it slides down along the wall, toward the mop, innocent in its bucket.
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First published in Scribes Micro Fiction, Issue 10, October 2021.
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