I went to the cabinet and got the window cleaner out. I use that stuff to clean anything, and today its dust. Little pieces of stars, all broken up – or clustered, depending on how you look at it. I go to the linen closet and get a hand towel out, the kind filled with ribs that gather all the grime. Perfectly straight grooves woven by a machine, they’ll pick up pieces of stars that I’ll rinse down the drain, then they’ll be cleaned by some other machine before being released into the sea, ready to start the cycle again. Are my ribs filled with stardust, caked on and built up, lining my fragile bones with their wondrous eternity? Can I clean the grime of endless years with the turn of a tap, the filter on a machine?

I go to the baseboard. Settling down onto the floor, I crawl up close, holding my breath to shield the long-settled dust from scattering. Bits of stars are a lot less spectacular than you’d expect them to be. I spray the cleaner onto the glossy, painted wood, and it rains down, the meteor shower falling under a torrent of chemical blue. I bring the cloth to its smooth surface.

She left today, packed up her things and went. But she didn’t bring her stardust with her. And looking at these baseboards with their dingy, smeared mess of grime and blue, I’m pretty sure I’ll be cleaning out those ribs for a while yet.