|Mason Johanson Is a Falling Star (mutinous) wrote in repose,|
@ 2016-05-24 22:25:00
|Entry tags:||*log, ella gainsborough, mason johanson|
[log: flower delivery - ella g/mason j
Who: Mason and Ella
What: Flower delivery to the church.
Where: The protestant church
Going on night, the sun setting slow as it pleased, Mason was smoking a fresh Marlboro red and sweeping the floor around the altar. The broom was battered yellow with plastic bristles gone fuzzy at the bottom, so it was taking longer than it had any right to. Last Sunday, though, he saw Parishioners walking out with dirty shoes, and he'd been feeling the grit under his boots for days now. So he was sweeping it up neat into the metal dustpan, ashing his cigarette into the little pile on occasion, watching the ashes sputter and glow for half a moment as they dropped through the air.
The first week was something of a success. You might even say he was starting to feel like he might be stuck to this town for a good long while, like a burr under its skin. This act, just the sweeping around the altar, was satisfying in its private way. It was an individual task, begun and finished. And of course he was bemused by its inherent symbolism. But the floor was dirty, and if he was going to be the preacher in this town, that wouldn't do. He cleaned around the altar without a shred of anything but care to the state of the floor.
When the dustpan was full, he leaned on the broom handle and looked out through the half-open windows toward the glow of the sun on the horizon. Summer was edging into this damp part of the world, but there would be no true, bone-deep heat here. He missed that, desert dryness or the gold light of the Mediterranean. It had been too long. Having flesh meant sensation in all its exquisiteness. His hand on the broom handle, smoke in his lungs, corrupting the tissue. All real, all corporeal, all a part of this world.
He tipped the cigarette up between his fingers and blew on the end. It glowed blue, then white, then settled back to faded sienna.
A clatter at the door said his delivery was in, and he turned toward it.