Daddy issues || h.s

2.1

Terry had worked at the museum for thirty-seven years, and never once had he
complained. He was married and had two kids, and he even had a grandchild on the way. But on this particular day, his back was aching and his forehead was sweating. He held the mop in his calloused hands and cursed under his breath. Some idiot kids had thrown peaches on the museum staircase, and now ants were crawling all over it, carrying bits of the ripe fruit back to their anthill.

"Goddamn kids," he swore, and kept mopping the floors.

He moved from room to room, leaving the floors shiny and clean, jus like he had always done. He took a certain pride in being able to make them look so shiny, many before him had tried, but he seemed to be the first to ever make them gleam this way. The peaches on the stairs were soon forgotten, and he whistled as he worked.

Finally, he stopped in front of his favourite painting. The ballerina. He didn't know why, but he had always felt especially connected to this picture. He liked the way the girl balanced all her weight on the tip of her toe, just like he had been able to balance all of his life on this job.

"Hello there, old friend." He said to the painting, taking off his hat and bowing his head. "Here we are again, balancing on our toes. How long has it been? Almost forty years? It has been for me at least, how long has it been for you? A hundred? God you must be tired." He kept mopping as he talked. "You know, I want to promise you something today. I want to promise you that one day, I will go to the royal ballet in London and see you dance, and then you can finally relax. I promise you that."

As he cleaned the floors in the room, he got closer and closer to the velvet drapery. It was old and dusty, and he had asked it be removed countless times, but the manager always declined his request.

He pulled it aside and greeted the statue. "Good evening Aphrodite," he said and mopped the floor and the bench in front of her. He always had to bend down to reach under the bench with the mop, and this was no exception. But there was one exception this time though, because when he pulled the mop back, something came with it.

It looked like a piece of cloth, maybe a handkerchief, at first. But then Terry picked it up and saw that it was something else entirely. He laughed to himself, and later that day he handed in his resignation.

Two weeks later he took his wife to London to see The Royal Ballet, because what he had found had been the last drop, and with it he had found the courage to finally get down on both feet and walk away.
Because he had found the light blue lace underwear of a girl who fell asleep on the couch, her fingers intertwined with those of the boy who had ripped the lace off her. But their hands were hidden beneath a blanket, because no one could know, and no one ever did.