Dustpan thumped against Floor, unable to wait any longer. It felt the bristles of Broom brush against it, and all it could do was quiver on Floor, letting its mouth and handle touch that hardwood. It can’t wait for the mess Eraser and Paper are making, watches them with hunger for the bits of Eraser’s shavings to fall, can’t wait to scoop it off of Floor.
“Stop that,” Broom says, though it continues to let the tips of its bristles brush against Dustpan’s sides. And Dustpan can’t help it, can’t help the sigh of air that rushes over it, spills some of the dust Broom’s already filled it with.
It can also see the quivers of Bin, near where Paper and Eraser are, envies how it can capture some of Eraser’s essence as it falls from the edge.
When Eraser’s finally done, removing the last of Pencil’s sins on Paper, Dustpan knows that it’s time. It feels giddy as it moves over Floor, feels Floor’s cold surface under it, feels how hard Floor is. It feels Broom’s bristles brush against its scoop, only for moments, watches as Broom runs its bristles over Floor’s surface, collects what Eraser had left behind.
It’s all marked by Bulb’s warm gaze over them, always watching, appreciating, never near enough that they can touch.
(That right belongs to Duster alone, and oh how Dustpan loves collecting the dust that falls, it’s always so rare, uncommon, something that it and Broom always anticipate.)
And when Broom’s filled Dustpan enough, when Dustpan can’t handle anything more, Bin always waits. It waits for Dustpan’s scoop to touch its opening, waits for the overflow of dirt that Dustpan’s held in. Broom would be leaning against Wall then, supported, as its bristles are pressing against Floor’s surface, watching Dustpan emptying all that Broom’s given it into Bin.
“You’re always waiting to be filled,” Dustpan says to Bin, its cover falling over Dustpan, greedy and hungry to have everything. Bin would make sure it’s empty just before Dustpan’s settled beside Broom again.
“You’re so dirty.” Broom says, not degrading.
Dustpan doesn’t even bother denying, waits to be filled again, its scoop pressed against the ends of Broom’s bristles.