On being a troll
There was a troll in the mirror today when I went to the bathroom, looking back at me with a sad smile.
It’s the type of medium size bathroom you might find on a ferry boat, in one of the better cabins. Still too small for a wash machine. Renovated maybe in the nineties.
I grew attached to it once when I was cleaning it throughoutly while listening to some Clive Barker novel which took place on a boat, coincidentally.
A horror novel, of course. Everybody dies. But still…
To go there cleaning on a fine autumn evening with a hot cup of black coffee in one hand, the toilet brush in the other: Isn’t that what it’s all about?; the autumn sun shining through the windows of the room outside…
And of course with the family nearby giving the bathroom a wide berth, as the floor is wet from the mop.
But today there was a troll in there. Handsome for a troll, but still…
Trolls are pretty resilient and often gather treasure. They regenerate, and even the small ones are strong like gorillas.