That’s what she collected. Small skeletal balls of fluff. Worthless, but they were hers...
Dust bunnies, lots and lots of dust bunnies. A whole collection of them. An entire shoebox full of nothing but dust bunnies.
That’s what she collected. Small skeletal balls of fluff. Worthless, but they were hers. She decorated the shoebox with stickers the lady gave her at the grocery store and glued buttons she pulled off of an old coat—the box she hoarded her dust bunnies in. She collected them from beneath old frumpy chairs and couches. From under beds and bookshelves. They were her treasures.
Best of all, no one would dream of stealing them—these dust bunnies she found in the places her mother took her. The places where she visited the men. Her mother would leave her in the living room with the TV turned up loud. Sometimes she would watch whatever was on, but mostly she would be on the hunt checking beneath the couch and behind the TV stand. Sometimes she pressed her ear against the bedroom door where her mother and the man were playing. They rarely went to the same house—so the adventure was always new. And no matter how clean the place was, she knew she could find at least one dust bunny under the fridge.
She collected dust bunnies—it's what she did—while her mother played tickle games with men in the other room.
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