The Symmetry Problem
Arthur pulled the vacuum cleaner across the floor, listening for that satisfying grit-clatter. His eyes settled on the Persian rug. The one his wife, Sarah, was so proud of. To him it had become an eyesore. It was swollen in the middle. A spongy, out-of-place hump. A radiator pipe ran under the floor just there, feeding it a trapped, damp warmth.
It wouldn’t do.
Certain kinds of clutter were remarkably inefficient. All angles and unpredictable soft spots. He’d started with smaller corrections months ago. Stacking her books out of sight. Burying her keepsakes in storage boxes. The relief never lasted.
She still had a way of leaking into the corners of his mind.
One had to be firm if one wanted symmetry.
He retrieved a serrated knife, a spraycan of flower-scented mildew spray, and a small plastic bag. Arthur paused to wonder why he’d put it there under the rug in the first place. Had he gone mad? No, he decided. Not everything fit in the bucket. It had made sense at the time.
He cut along where the rug bubbled, sawing gently, careful not to slip. The cut should be symmetric. A sour-sweet, musty tang wafted up where he cut. He began scooping the pulp into the bag.
He liked the moment when something stopped being a problem.
The buzzer rang.
The sound was annoying. Asymmetrical. Henderson. Had to be. The man was a human stain. A collector of grievances.
“Arthur? It’s George,” the voice came through the door.
Arthur looked at the remaining wet pulp. He needed to finish quickly. He scraped the last of the sticky bits free with his fingers.
George rapped again. “I can hear you moving things around. I know you’re there.”
“Not a good time, George,” Arthur called back.
He sprayed the wet area with mildew spray, and the room too for good measure, then placed the cut rug piece back into place. He smoothed the fibers with both hands until the surface looked symmetrical.
He opened the lid on the damp-waste bucket in the kitchen, dumped the bag, and closed the lid tightly.
Another set of rapping. More insistent now.
Then he washed his hands, set the vacuum back in place, and placed the knife in the sink. He didn’t rinse the blade first. That was new.
But everything was orderly again. Balanced.
Arthur smoothed his shirt, arranged his face, and opened the door.
“Finally.” Henderson scowled, leaning in, his gaze raking the apartment.
“Have you seen my cat?” he asked, half accusation.
“’Fraid not,” Arthur said.
“Mm.” Henderson’s eyes drifted past him, already inside the room. “I’ll just have a look.”
He took a step forward. Arthur moved aside with utmost politeness. Inside, the itch rose again. As Henderson crossed the threshold, Arthur’s eyes flicked to the bucket.
Then they moved to Henderson’s fleshy neck.
And Arthur wondered, briefly, what it would take to make him fit.