Varma: Collections

By Adrien Robertson, Second Runner-up

There was hardly room for him in his study, these days.

Under the baleful gaze of his wife, the room had once been more than accommodating to him and his marginalia. He was an adamant collector, attached to his things, pleased only when he could be closest to them. She was his organizer, ghosting through the room when he was hunched over his desk, and saw to it that no dust was allowed to settle, no clutter permitted to scale the walls while he worked. Practically spectral, she arranged his things, making note but no comment when she had to arrange them by genus.

Without their overseer, his paraphernalia had overtaken the room. The walls pressed against towers of paper, the shelves overburdened by jars and boxes. His lamp threw meek light against the shadows, great teeth that chewed the fading wallpaper. He could only stoop at his desk, pressed between all of it, scared to move lest he disturb the dust.

She had disapproved of his latest addition, one day, and finally revolted. She never wanted to see him again. Unable to let her go, he proposed a compromise.

Standing, he made his precarious way to the door. Two jars perched nearest the entrance. He turned both, and two pairs of eyes stared into the room, his wife’s gaze once again demanding order from the room. He smiled, already imagining the dust lifting away.

Their daughter had her mother’s eyes. Side-by-side, the jars were a most pleasing pair.