MATTHEW STOLTENBERG
Dom
He held a single hair between the tips of his fingers. Holding it to the light, he turned it back and forth, inspecting it. It almost looked gray. He held his hand out to his side and shook the hair loose, letting it fall to the floor. He pressed his eyes closed and ran his hands over his face and up through his hair, like he was trying to push the pressure that was building at the back of his skull up and out of his body. When he brought his hands back down, a new hair was stuck between his fingers, and this one was definitely gray. “Christ,” he said, “not only is it turning gray, it’s falling out.” He loosed this one to the floor as well, both hairs disappearing from both sight and mind as they laid on the carpet. Consuela would suck them up this afternoon when she made her rounds. Consuela was the name he gave to the vacuum that sat in its charging station in the corner of the living room. He had given a name to all the little gadgets and gizmos that had come into his life, which made his life more convenient. When he woke up in the morning, Karen had a cup of coffee waiting for him in the kitchen. When the time came to take his daily medications, Dr. Patel dispensed them neatly in a little tray, just the right amount of pills at the right doses. Dr. Patel sat on the counter in the bathroom next to Flo, who cleaned his teeth. They had company in the bathroom, which was home to Blaine. Blaine the bidet, who automatically washed his ass, which he was sure that Martha the Maytag appreciated when she cleaned his underwear.
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