"It must be bigger now" - she sighed and then - "Today I plan to clean
the entire house. It is your last weekend here."
On cue, I went to the public library and spent a good few hours reading
Kafka's "Metamorphosis", a story about a respectable clerk turned
loathsome insect in his sleep.
We used to clean the house together, Nomi and I. She would sluice the
floor and I would dust, scrub the bathrooms and the kitchen. It was one
of the last things we did together before we stopped.
The afternoon was muggy and I walked home, immersed in thought. I found
Nomi slouched on an armchair, surrounded by heaps of furniture and
bundled carpets. Her face wore tearful makeup, her eyes were distant,
and her hair bedraggled. I upturned a chair and faced her, silently.
She pointed speechlessly at the general direction of the kitchen and
then subsided.
"I stepped on it, I squashed it" - and added frantically - "I didn't
mean to! It is still so small and I don't know how it made it to that
corner!"
"It must have climbed the refrigerator and descended to the floor" - I
ventured. She signalled me to keep away.
"I had to clean the house because of you, because you are going" - in
an accusatory tone.
I didn't know how to respond, so I tiptoed to the kitchen and
contemplated the mess of snail and concha on the floor.
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