“The same thing that’s supposed to have killed the cat. I happened to see you when you drove up to cabin. I stay here sometimes, and it’s the first time I’d seen anyone here in quite awhile.”
“So you’re the reason cabin is so clean? Why don’t you wash the windows?” she asked, perplexed.
“But they’re clean!” he exclaimed.
And Phoebe looked out the windows again, peppered with raindrops and no dust nor a cobweb in sight, and remembered that they’d been clean when she’d walked into the house.
“But they weren’t yesterday,” she protested. “You can’t have done all this cleaning since yesterday.”
“No” he agreed, “you’re looking at them from inside. Inside they’re clean, they’re in my world. Outside they’re dirty, they’re in your world.”
She stared out the window, retracing her entrance into the little cabin, walking again through the front door. The windows had been dirty and cobwebby on the outside, but once she’d come in, the windows had been clear and clean.
“Why?” she asked.
He pulled his legs up and wrapped his arms around them, leaning forward a little bit. His head tipped down as he stared at the quilt underneath him, and he rested his chin on his knees. “Because,” he replied, “I don’t like dirty, cobwebby windows.” And he looked up at her, mirth twinkling from his eyes and a grin on his face.
A Page A Day 