Dust
November 5 — Dust
There was dust on the windowsill. A grey film. She ran a finger along it and let the powder gather in the corner, build up on the pad of her index. She massaged her thumb and forefinger together, attempting to rid herself of it — the dead skin cells, the pollen particles, the skeletal remains of insects — only to work it further into the grooves of her fingers. Dust motes in the air caught the light, and she suppressed the urge to sneeze.
She leaned in close, her fingerprint ashy, the lines filled and darkened. The closer she looked, the less it looked like powder and the more it looked like a world.
Сайхан Бичээрэй!
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