His arms reflect his existence. They are strong. They pick things up, make sense of them, and set them down again at a different angle, in a way that they can now be dealt with, picked up by weaker arms to be held and to be used.
He picks me up. He turns me upside down and shakes them best bits from me, leaving my ‘Top10’ assets neatly lined up in single file on the floor at his feet. He sets my shell back down to one side and that too crumples into a pile beside him, my face turned upwards to him, staring. He picks up each piece from the floor and holds it in his cupped hands; he turns it over and over, peering inside the nooks and crannies, running his thumbs over the cracks, working it out. Then, not breaking it, not stretching it, he begins to work on it. He moulds it with his hands, rubs at the edges, using his index fingers as tools, altering the smallest elements. Slowly, without irrational movement and without hesitation, he works his way systematically through each item at his feet. Each time he works only until he is satisfied. He comes to the last. My body is the last, the shell that was the packaging for all of the other parts. He stops. He studies my upturned face. He does not move towards it. He turns away.
In the same manner as the alterations were made, he puts me back together. He takes the items from by his feet and piles me full once more until I stand next to him once again. He checks me, swinging my arms, rotating my neck, touching my lips, ensuring that I am still the same. He picks me up at the waist and raises me in the air slowly, running his eyes down my body, over my face. He places me back down gently in front of him. Satisfaction.
He turns his back on me and walks away.