Feather Dusted
By Gordy Fluffer — A little pressure, a lot of polish, and a view worth smudging for.
Rafael arrived at precisely 14:00. Not early. Not late. Just as the day had begun to dip into that golden Arizona glow that made dust look romantic and Harold look extra judgmental.
Glenn had made sure the recliners were angled just a touch more toward the front window—“for the natural light,” he said. But both men knew better.
Today was window day.
Rafael entered with the same calm confidence as before, but this time, he carried a telescoping pole, a caddy full of squeegees, and a spray bottle that gleamed like it had been blessed in a cathedral. His tank top was looser, his shorts... somehow shorter.
“Good afternoon,” he said, with a nod that was both formal and deeply inappropriate.
He began with the exterior windows, working his way around the house. His motions were fluid, steady—like he was painting murals of cleanliness with every sweep. Glenn and Harold sat in reverent silence, each sip of iced tea timed between movements.
And then—he reached the picture window.
Rafael paused. Looked up. And smiled.
From inside, Harold whispered, “He’s coming for the big one.”
Glenn clutched the armrest. “Brace yourself.”
Rafael extended the pole first. He gave it a practiced sweep across the top pane, deliberate and smooth. Then he retracted the handle slowly—almost theatrically—and set it aside.
And that’s when he leaned in.
One thick arm braced against the window frame. His shirt lifted just slightly as he reached high—far higher than necessary. His torso pressed into the glass with the soft, satisfying sound of skin meeting surface.
Harold: “He’s smushing.”
Glenn: “He doesn’t need to smush. That pole is telescopic.”
Harold: “And yet… here we are.”
Rafael wiped the top corner of the window with slow, controlled circles. His breath fogged the glass just enough to require another pass. He made it. With the cloth wrapped around two fingers.
Harold dropped his tea.
Glenn didn’t notice.
The glass sparkled.
So did Harold’s forehead.
Rafael stepped back, admired his work, and nodded once—professional, clinical.
And then, he winked.
---
Once the windows were crystal clear—dangerously so, according to Harold, who “almost walked straight through them just to get away from his own feelings”—Rafael stepped inside.
He moved like he belonged in the space, like every floorboard was a willing dance partner and every light fixture was a forgotten friend in need of rescue.
From his kit, he pulled a feather duster.
Not a cheap one. No, this was clearly artisan. The handle was carved wood, possibly mahogany. The feathers were dense, luxurious, clearly sourced from a bird that had seen some shit. There was even a wrist loop. A wrist loop, Glenn.
He stepped beneath the living room’s ceiling fan, looked up, and sighed.
Rafael: “Ah. You spin, but you trap secrets. We must unburden you.”
He climbed the footstool with the elegance of a ballet dancer and the thigh engagement of a squat champion.
Glenn (whispering): “He’s narrating again.”
Harold: “He gave the fan a backstory, Glenn.”
Glenn: “I don’t care. Keep narrating.”
Up on the stool, Rafael reached up, one arm extended, shirt pulling just enough to reveal a curve of back that made Glenn rethink everything he thought he knew about aging gracefully.
The feathers met the blade.
He twirled them like a baton, slow and deliberate, dislodging a perfectly intact dust bunny that floated down like a confused snowflake.
Rafael caught it.
Midair.
With the grace of a man who’d been training for that exact moment.
Harold: “Did he just—”
Glenn: “He caught it.”
Harold: “We’re in a soap opera, Glenn.”
Rafael descended from the stool like a victorious god, turned, and flicked the dust bunny gently into the bin. No words. Just purpose.
Then he moved to the bookshelf.
The feathers extended like a fan in a burlesque routine.
The books didn’t know what hit them.
---
Rafael didn’t just dust—he respected the objects. One by one. Gentle swipes. A quiet hum. A slight, intentional bend that gave both recliners something to process.
He didn’t look at them.
He didn’t have to.
But then—then—he circled behind Glenn’s recliner.
Glenn froze.
Rafael leaned slightly, duster in hand, and swept across the top of the TV. He tilted his head, not quite facing either of them, and said, “You have a lovely home. Lived-in. Honest.”
Harold (hoarsely): “It wasn’t honest before you got here.”
Rafael chuckled, soft and knowing, and moved on. Not flirtatious. Not teasing. Just confident. Professional.
He worked the full perimeter of the room with quiet focus, giving every surface, every item, every corner its due. He didn’t linger. He didn’t exaggerate. He simply excelled.
It was Glenn who broke first.
Glenn: “I think I’m in love with the way he cleans our thermostat.”
Harold (without blinking): “You need to calm down.”
Glenn (still staring): “He used two cloths. One for the dial. One for the housing.”
Harold: “You’re sweating.”
Glenn: “It’s character development.”
---
With the living room spotless and the air now lightly scented with lemon, lavender, and longing, Rafael returned to his kit.
He knelt—not dramatically, just efficiently, which somehow made it worse—and pulled out a small folded cloth, a squeeze bottle, and a roll of butcher paper.
Harold: “He’s not—don’t tell me he’s—”
Glenn: “He’s polishing the coffee table.”
And he was. He laid the butcher paper on the carpet, tucked the edges beneath the table legs, and began to buff the surface in slow, concentric circles. Each motion was deliberate. Unhurried. Reverent.
At one point, he adjusted the table slightly. Not because it needed to move—just because it looked better shifted one inch to the left.
Glenn (softly): “He feng shui’d us.”
Harold: “Without consent.”
Once the table gleamed like a mirror and smelled faintly like a European apothecary, Rafael stood, looked around the room, and gave a single, satisfied nod.
He picked up his kit and walked to the door.
Halfway out, he paused—of course he paused—and turned just enough to speak without looking directly at them.
“Next time,” he said, “we’ll address the bedroom.”
And then he was gone.
The door shut behind him like the curtain dropping on the final act of a play they weren’t emotionally ready to leave.
Glenn blinked at the now-perfect living room.
Glenn: “I need a lie down.”
Harold (grumbling): “You need a cold shower.”
Glenn (rising slowly): “Well… I’m heading that way. If you want the good towel, you’d better hurry.”
Harold didn’t answer right away.
But he followed.
—
End.