091/100 aka 231/365

DUST
Word Count: 276

On Tuesday she went shopping for dust. Her mother and great aunt were coming that week for a visit and they, she suspected, expected a layer of dust.

She found it at the old hardware store in a dying downtown after spending the whole day at the mall. “Dust, just plain dust,” she’d inquired, “unless it comes in gauges or some such thing in which case fine or super-fine would be best.”

She sprinkled it lightly on tables and lamps, on the TV and the bookshelves, avoiding the naked edged pages of books, which she held sacred. She dusted some in her bedroom, on top of the dresser, bedstand and as an afterthought, the headboard, where her mother surely would look. In the kitchen she stood on a chair and shook the bag gingerly for a nice even coating on the top of the refrigerator and did the same on the range hood for effect. With the very last of it left, she went around rooms leaving a fine blanket on the wood floors between rugs and walls.

The visit went as suspected/expected and she smiled as they snuck into her bedroom, wiped fingers on tabletops, reaching up to swipe a finger on the cover over the stove. They never spoke of their discoveries, allowing an upswept eyebrow, a pinched mouth, an unstoppable tsk! escape over a lampshade. They were pleased because there were no surprises. She had hidden her grown-up self well.

They hugged and kissed at the doorway and promised to visit again soon. “Anytime!” she said gaily, and made a note to go downtown shopping to pick up more dust.