The Objects of My Desire- Conclusion

     The creaky freight elevator, down in the back of the store and out of sight levels off at #4 and comes to a slow, groaning halt.  Carefully I open the inner gate, then raise the outer steel door with the tiny, smudged window and roll my cart onto the dark, wide planks carpeted with decades of dust, pausing briefly to make sure I’m alone.  With the exception of my footprints, it appears as if no one has been up here in years, and the room that contains the mannequins is just down the corridor and around the first corner from the elevator.  The first rooms I pass contain dusty shelving units, jewelry display cases, and old office furniture.  The lighting on these floors is poor, and my skin prickles at the eerie shadows that line the wide corridors. 

     Finally, my destination.  “Hello my friends,” I whisper.  “I’ve come back.”  They are all silent, but I know, deep down, that they’ll be happy to finally have identities.  I pull the things I previously collected from the office supply section out of my cart, and set to work, cutting and taping, and before long they all have their faces on and I grow excited.  Pleased with my work I open the lower storage compartment of my cart and remove the cordless drill and hole saw bit I removed from the maintenance shop in the basement, and grab the bottle of lotion I snatched from Cosmetics off the top of my cart.  I set these aside on a pigeon shit- covered shelf nearby, and walk among my friends, my gorgeous co-workers, laying them down, one at a time, promising them I will be gentle.   

     Only a select few- the ones in the more active poses- will do, since the ones simply standing upright don’t excite me, and these chosen ones are my girls.  After the drill quiets each time, I listen for approaching footsteps, and grow more aroused once I realize I am still alone.  I end up with five, to be exact.  Their names aren’t important.  Four of them, young, smiling, overly made-up, work in different clothing departments, the fifth, I’m not ashamed to admit, is probably in her fifties and reminds me of my mother.  I think she does payroll.  I’m not sure.  They look so beautiful and helpless, staring at me, watching as I undress and reach for the cool, viscous gel that will ease my efforts.