He adored her. And wasn't that just the way it was? The word
itself had no meaning. Simply a convergence of syllables all
wrapped up together in a scramble which in the brief moment
that he had read it, was a "she". And after that moment was
gone, he didn't feel it anymore. That warm sensation in his
belly. That glowing, glistening marble which he had called a
"she". It was as if once he started reading its name, the
latter letters would all too abruptly and simply flux into
his mind and fill it once again with such childish joy. Was
it a fetish? He couldn't tell. He was overrun by it anyway,
so why bother at all? There had always been people in his
life that mattered or that he could say that he loved, but
always accompanied by an awkward feeling of mistrust of
himself. A certain ambiguity to it. The kind of feeling you
get when telling a white lie to a friend or relative. Like a
feeling of something that you do only to compensate yourself
over a bad day, or a bitter feeling that you generally have
toward yourself. But this was different. Oh yes. This was
him in his most impractical. The mop was an altogether new
kind of feeling that he had always felt the need for, and
only recognized, but never could fully understand. Not
entirely. Not until that point in his life on which he had
bought the mop. He had felt rather guilty at first. Paying
for it. It had seemed as if there had been some wrong into
it. Some false. Though after a short while he knew it will
have made him feel rough. They would share a future
together. He knew that with his whole. A "long term
relationship..." as his late girlfriend used to call it.
Ofcourse, something else will have always popped up by her
standards. 'she was so shellow' he thought. 'mop, mop mop,
mmmm...op...', so he muttered to himself every evening. Also
at work, lunch, even on some social occasions and other
job-related events he would use some moments, when no one
was watching or listening, to chant it to himself. Obviously
he could not tell other people about the mop. No, it would
ruin everything. Other people couldn't understand. You can't
explain these kind of emotions. You can't just sum them up
to one word like most of them would have you do, and you
can't even write a book about them. You could only speak of
them. But he never did like to share. In the beginning when
he saw her in the store he was perplexed. He ran home and
sat for a while and pondered over this and that, and the
other that which annoyed him and the thises that used to
make him happy. It sort of neutralized it all. Making him
numb. Until he bought her. A moment of sheer bliss,
inexplicable. The word itself fascinated him and occupied
his thoughts for hours over days. After that he got used to
the relationship, but not as in an old couple "getting used
to eachother" in the traditional way, but as in another kind
of "used to...". it had become a sort of mantra to him. He
meditated over it. 'mop, mop mop mop ,mop mopmopmopmop...".
Chanting it like so day and night, night and day, consumed
by it. Was it an obsession? He didn't know what to call it.
It didn't matter. Soon he would stop going to work. What was
"work"? was it anything? Surely it wasn't as good as the
mop, but was there any goodness to it. It was only a place
and an idea which others had thought up for him. It wasn't
real enough. It wasn't tangible. He couldn't taste it. The
mop was bitter. It tasted like the rubber of a tire that's
been run over many times before. It wasn't a good taste, but
it was real. Too real, and since there wasn't much sense in
too real to exist, so, after not much reflection over the
idea, it put him at ease. With other things he felt, well,
simply at a loss. No. this was different. Anyhow work was a
bore and a waste. He preferred to stay home now. Yes, it's
better for him. "home is where the heart is", and where
dwells the mop. Months would pass and soon he will have
forgotten about the world that's outside. 'This was the
perfect time for retirement' he conjured. This was
perfection at it's best. All was in peace and all was at
ease. Everything else was outside, and the mop was "inside".
He soon started feeling empathetic towards her. Sweeping
with her every day. 'Oh! I should give her a name!' he
proclaimed one day. Not much afterwards, after much
contemplating on the matter, he finally understood that
there was no point to giving her a name.  she was already
named, by it's mere essence. She was mop, and that was all
she could be. And this was fine. 'Names are more of a people
thing anyway...' he realized. One day he was gazing upon the
mop, as he had done every day since he had bought it, and as
the hours went by, he realized that he could not sustain his
desire towards it. Days would pass. He would grow thinner
and thinner, 'well, that's usually what you'd get when you
don't eat' he giggled to himself, only so quiet so the mop
would not hear. It stared back at him. He started
remembering ol' Jimmy Wilson, from the days of his youth.
They used to make staring contests back then. They used to
love just sitting around for hours staring until one would
break, and laugh. But this was different. 'Why are you angry
with me, dearest...?' he asked shamefully slightly
concealing his grin when saying it to the mop. 'why do you
mock  me my loveliest...?'. He started to sound just a teeny
wee afraid. The days would continue to pass and soon he
would grow fearful of the mop. He could not possibly
understand why the mop would be angry with him. All his days
had been spent upon her, and he "loved" her to say the
least. And she knew. Perhaps she was trying to take
advantage of him. Perhaps it was not a "mutual" relationship
as the others used to call it. Who are the others? He had
forgotten all about them. Who were they. Mo- t - .
something, yes, mo- tr. He recalled a creature, known to
him. A mother of some sort.  'yes, moper' he said to
himself. 'no, wait...'. This was not it. 'mother' he said
finally. The mop did not answer. 'you never did like her' he
said. ' you scoundreling, hateful bitch!' he shouted
sharply. 'you never did love me... even... liked me you did
not'. 'you deserve not my awe'. 'you deserve nigh'. A stare
started to paint itself upon his face. A look of distrust
and ghastly terror. He arose from his chair and slapped it
once, twice. A third time then. He held the mop in his two
hands, gripping it tightly, his fists clung. After waving it
about the room he finally snapped it. Screaming very
passionately, he withdrew his grip, and strarted stepping on
it firmly and decisively. Pictures suddenly started showing
up in his thoughts. Old friends. Relatives. Acquaintances.
Quivered he did. His face was red with anger and a look of
realization was starting to float. With the pictures came
tears and with the tears came memories of his beloved mop.
He started chatting again and again. 'mop mop mop...' he
quivered. 'mop ohh god please... mop... mop'. The word would
not leave him. With a shameful moan, with a bass bellowing
following he called ' murder' . one of the neighbours heard
this and quickened towards the phone. 'murderrrr...' again.
He lifted a broken piece of the mop and with great sadness
and remorse, but also deep helplessness that his countenance
was showing, a sort of look that was fitting for a sad
clown, shoved it into his head. One second passing. Another.
And he was gone. They were both lying there in the darkness
of his study, showing no expressions. Two beings. Dead.