Clary

Clarissa stood in the hallway, staring at the vacuum cord like it was a puzzle from a mystery novel. “Now if I plug this end here… does that make the noise box start hollerin’?” She tapped her nail against her chin, deep in thought. The vacuum sat silently, waiting for her next move.

She finally plugged it in, gasped at the roar, and promptly walked away humming, leaving it running in the middle of the floor like a forgotten child.

Armed with a feather duster, Clarissa marched into the parlor and began dusting the air. Not the table, not the shelves—just the air. “Gotta get rid of all these lil’ floaty dust fairies,” she cooed, swinging the duster like a magic wand.

When asked what she was doing, she blinked slowly, lips parted. “Well shoot, sugar, ain’t that what dustin’ means? Dustin’… the dust?”

She stacked dishes into the dishwasher, humming, until she realized halfway that she had put the plates in upside down. She squatted in front of it, squinting hard. “Lawd have mercy, that don’t look right…”

Her solution? She pulled all the dishes out and put them in the oven instead, confident she’d solved the mystery.

Clarissa walked into the kitchen with a mop, stopped, and frowned at the floor. “Now what in tarnation was I supposed to clean again?” She tapped her lip with her nail, then mopped a random square tile like it was the chosen one.

By the end of the hour, one tile gleamed like polished marble, and the rest of the floor looked untouched. She beamed proudly.

Carrying a bucket of soapy water, she tripped over her own slippers and spilled half of it across the floor. “Oopsie daisy! Guess I’ll just call that pre-moppin’.” She laughed at her own mistake, unfazed.

Then she spent another hour sliding around in her socks, pretending to “test” the slipperiness of the clean floor instead of actually cleaning.

Clarissa bent over the coffee table to wipe it down, humming. The table nearly scooted back from the sheer force of her hips brushing against it. She looked over her shoulder and giggled. “Now ain’t that somethin’? This caboose got its own personality.”

Instead of adjusting, she just kept working, shaking side to side like she was dancing more than dusting.

While putting groceries away, she tried to reach the top shelf. Standing on her toes, she arched dramatically, skirts hiking higher. “Shoot, why they gotta make cabinets so tall?” she whined.

In her struggle, she ended up knocking half the items off the counter with her hips. “Well, sugar, guess the Lord gave me built-in elbows back here.”

She squeezed sideways through a doorway, sighing loudly when she got stuck for a moment. “Gracious alive, this ol’ house ain’t built for southern hospitality.” With a wiggle and a shimmy, she freed herself.

Instead of embarrassed, she gave a wink like she’d just performed a show.

Carrying laundry, she bumped open a drawer with her hips instead of her hands, humming like it was no big deal. “Hands-free livin’, darlin’. God’s little shortcut.”

She strutted off afterward, looking smug as if she’d just invented multitasking.

Sitting on the couch, the cushions deflated dramatically beneath her weight. “Mercy me, this sofa’s singin’ the blues,” she drawled, patting the cushion like it was a faithful old dog.

Still, she snuggled into it happily, her wide hips taking up half the space.

Clarissa chewed absently on a straw, lips smacking with every thoughtful bite. She didn’t notice the lipstick she left all over it, just twirling it like a toy. “Mmm, that sweet tea hits the soul,” she purred, smacking again.

Her pouty mouth made even casual sipping look like an event.

She paused mid-chore to lean in close, whispering conspiratorially. Her lips hovered on each word, slow and deliberate. “Honey, I swear, these dust bunnies are multiplyin’.”

The joke wasn’t funny, but her mouth’s exaggerated pucker made it feel like she was spilling scandalous secrets.

Every glass she touched had a lipstick print. When asked why she didn’t clean them right away, she smiled dreamily. “Why, sugar, that’s just a little autograph. Proof ol’ Clarissa’s been here.”

The kitchen cabinet became a museum of pink smudges.

Trying to concentrate, she bit her lip so hard her gloss smudged across her chin. “Well ain’t that a sticky situation.” Instead of cleaning it off, she pouted proudly, like it was a new fashion.

Her oblivious confidence made the smear look intentional.

Telling a story, she punctuated her words with kisses blown into the air. “So I says to her—mwah!—that dress ain’t doin’ you no favors.”

Her gossip was harmless, but her lips were the star of the tale.

Clarissa tried carrying a broom, feather duster, and tray of cookies all at once. Predictably, she tripped, tossing cookies onto the clean floor. “Whoopsie! That’s just a snackin’ system, sugar—clean while ya eat.”

She ate one right off the floor with no shame, giggling as she brushed crumbs onto the rug.

While singing to herself, she misheard the lyrics and belted out nonsense, twirling in the hallway. “Oooooohhhhhh mop the chicken, la-la-laaa!” she crooned.

Her confidence sold the performance, even if the words didn’t make sense.

She once mistook a bottle of furniture polish for hairspray. With a dramatic puff, she coated her curls in lemon-scented shine. “Smells fresh, don’t it?” she asked proudly.

The room glistened—her hair included.

During dusting, she leaned against the wall and sighed like a heroine in a romance novel. “Lawdy, chores just drain the soul right outta me.” She fanned herself with the duster, lips pouty.

Then she promptly fell asleep standing up, still holding the feather duster like a bouquet.

Clarissa balanced a tray of lemonade glasses, announcing, “Refreshments, y’all!” Just as she turned the corner, the tray tipped, soaking the carpet. She froze, blinking innocently. “Well, reckon the rug was thirsty too.”

Her giggle afterward made it clear she didn’t see it as a failure—just another funny day.

Clarissa balanced a feather duster in one hand and a plate of cookies in the other, humming happily. She paused, blinking at the ceiling. “Now… was I dustin’ the chandelier or feedin’ the neighbor’s cat?” Her lips puckered as she thought real hard. By the time she set the cookies down, she was already dusting the cookies themselves, mistaking them for ornaments.

She smiled to herself, proud of her “shine job.” “Whew! Them look real sparkly now.” She hadn’t noticed the trail of crumbs she’d left across the carpet.

Tasked with vacuuming, she plugged the cord into the wall and switched it on. The machine roared to life, but Clarissa just stared at it, waiting for it to move on its own. After a full minute, she tapped her chin with her long nail. “Funny lil’ critter ain’t it? Don’t even got legs, bless its heart.”

Finally, she dragged it forward, giggling the whole time, but only managed to clean one square foot before drifting off to hum at the window, forgetting she’d even started.

She was supposed to fold laundry, but when you walked in, you found her sitting in the middle of a pile of clothes, trying on every hat she found. “How do I look, sugar? Am I a cowgirl, a sailor, or the Pope?” she asked, twirling in mismatched socks and laughing at herself.

The laundry, of course, remained a mountain around her, entirely untouched.

While polishing the floor, Clarissa leaned down, staring at her reflection in the waxy wood. “Well ain’t you just the prettiest gal I ever did see,” she whispered to herself, lips pursed into a kiss. She became so wrapped up in chatting with her “twin” that she forgot she was on her knees with the mop dripping on the rug.

By the time she looked up, the entire hallway glistened in patches and puddles, a chaotic reflection of her distracted mind.

Clarissa marched into the kitchen with determination, ready to tackle the dishes. Five minutes later, she was stirring a pot of imaginary gumbo with the wooden spoon she’d found, singing to herself. “Lawdy, that smells good!” Except nothing was cooking.

When asked what she was doing, she blinked blankly. “Well, shoot… what was I doin’?”

Carrying a basket of laundry, Clarissa squeezed through a doorway. The basket fit fine, but her hips didn’t. With a little wiggle and a grunt, she finally made it through, laughing at herself. “Mercy me, this ol’ house just ain’t built for all this.”

She turned to wink, shaking her hips like it was part of the joke, as if her curves were just another tool in her arsenal of charm.

While dusting shelves, she bent over with exaggerated slowness, humming a tune. “La-dee-daa…” Her skirt fluttered dangerously as she stretched, oblivious to the spectacle she created.

Straightening up, she sighed, hands on her hips. “Whew, chores sure do take it outta ya, don’t they, sugar?”

Every time she sat on the sofa, the cushions sank dramatically under her. She would giggle, patting her lap as if to test it. “Lordy, one day this poor couch gon’ cry for help.”

But her smile suggested she enjoyed the attention the moment always brought.

She tried squeezing behind a coffee table to dust, but the furniture nearly tipped when she brushed past it. “Oopsie daisy! Did I do that?” she laughed, steadying it with both hands.

Then she shrugged, utterly unbothered. “These hips got a mind of their own sometimes.”

While moving through the room, she often bumped drawers closed with her hips instead of her hands. “Ain’t no sense wastin’ effort when I got the good Lord’s hammer back here,” she teased, making chores look like a dance.

Her grin widened when the “hammer” worked a little too well, shutting the drawer with a loud thud.

Clarissa leaned against the wall with a feather duster in one hand and a lollipop in her mouth. She popped it out with a loud smack of her lips, sighing dramatically. “Mmm, cherry. Don’t that just make the whole world sweeter?”

She talked around the candy as though it were a microphone, her big glossy lips punctuating every word with sass.

She had a habit of chewing her lower lip whenever she tried to think, which was often. The glossy pout glistened in the light, and half the time she ended up smearing lipstick on her finger. “Shoot, now I gotta fix this mess,” she muttered, smudging it more.

The funny part? The smudge somehow made her look even more glamorous, though she didn’t realize it.

When she talked too long, she’d pause to blow a playful kiss just to punctuate her rambling. “And then I says to her, darlin’, ya just gotta—” mwah!

Whether or not it was appropriate never crossed her mind.

Drinking from a glass, she always left a perfect lipstick print. She would look at it, tilt her head, and smile. “Ain’t that just a little autograph from me?”

The fact that every cup in the house was branded with her lips never struck her as odd.

Clarissa leaned close during a story, her thick lips rounding out every syllable. “So I told him plain as day—sugar, you ain’t foolin’ nobody.”

She let the words hang in the air, her pouty mouth almost more persuasive than the actual story.

Before Clarissa even walked into the room, you heard the steady rhythm of her steps punctuated by an unmistakable clap clap. She eventually appeared, humming, feather duster in hand.

“Y’all hear somethin’?” she asked innocently, glancing around, as if the sound wasn’t hers.

Carrying a tray of lemonade, she waddled carefully across the porch. Each step produced a little percussion behind her, drawing curious stares. She just smiled brightly, pretending she didn’t notice.

“Drinks, anyone? Fresh-squeezed!”

At night, her footsteps echoed through the quiet hall, followed by that telltale sound. “Clap clap clap.” She stopped, looking around suspiciously. “Land’s sake, is there a ghost in here?”

Then she shrugged and went right back to humming, unbothered by the haunting “specter” that followed her everywhere.

Even when sweeping, the noise kept up like a background soundtrack. Shhhk, clap, shhhk, clap. She swayed with the rhythm, almost turning cleaning into a performance.

“Guess I bring my own music with me, sugar,” she joked.

Once, someone tried sneaking up on her while she dusted. But the clapping gave her away long before she turned around. She gasped, “Lawd, you scared me!” then blinked innocently. “Wait… how’d you know where I was at?”

The answer was obvious, but Clarissa just giggled, still blissfully unaware.