The Addict

For those of you who don’t know what Brasso is, its that stuff your maid uses to clean the brass in your house. I believe their may even be variants for silver and wood? No, not wood, just silver. It has a pungent, metallic smell, faintly nostalgic of a pensioner's bathroom. On inspection it appears milky grey with the consistency of runny shampoo. I suppose cocaine is equally innocuous, easily mistakable for the humble baker’s daily flower. But Brasso, a product whose name leaves little up to the imagination, is ostensibly habit forming as well. Susan, bless her, has fallen. She has started using the polish three times a week. I cannot fathom how often the average brass trinket needs polishing, but I am convinced that it is less than three times a week. On my way out of the house I see Susan crouched in the corner of the kitchen, behind the door, almost supine on the tiles, feverishly rubbing some senseless ornament. Our eyes meet, hers wide and crazed. I notice the piles of dirty washing surrounding her, somewhere in the distance a cat meows for its breakfast, but she ignores all of it. Did I imagine her nostrils flaring? Oh my god they are flaring! Sucking up the Brasso like the once used vacuum cleaner in the cupboard. Backing away from her, I trip over one of the cats, eliciting a bilious meow. I run to my car and drive away. Later when I return home the trinkets shine from their shelves, reflect light in my eyes, and Susan is nowhere to be found.