The Pruning of the Silhouette

Surrealism

Arthur knelt on the beige shag rug. He gripped the handles of the bypass pruners. His shadow had overgrown again. A thick, black tendril had wound itself twice around the leg of the teak coffee table. It had tripped Martha twice on Tuesday. He positioned the blades. The shadow did not yield easily. It felt like cutting through wet leather or dense felt. There was no sound of metal on metal; instead, there was a muted, thumping click. Each snip released a small, heavy clump of darkness. The clippings accumulated in a heap beside his knee. They looked like piles of iron filings or damp charcoal. They did not smudge the rug, but they absorbed the light around them, creating a small, lightless mound. He worked methodically. He trimmed the edges of his silhouette, squaring off the excess that had begun to bleed into the corners of the room. He clipped a stray vine that had attempted to migrate toward the floor lamp. It was a tedious process. He spent forty minutes on the left side alone. By the time he finished, his shadow was a neat, compact shape again. He swept the clippings into a dustpan. They felt cold and surprisingly heavy. He carried them to the bin in the garage and closed the lid.