The Kleptomaniac

It’s the rush that brings Anne back each time. The sizzle of adrenaline that pushes through her veins, igniting them like nothing else ever would. It’s this rush, she likes to imagine, that clears all the clogged arteries acquired with age.

She waits for the woman to step out of the room, off to get refreshments in the direction of the kitchen and pulls her Census baseball cap securely onto her forehead. Becoming a surveyor was the easiest way Anne had found to enter, invited, into another’s home.  Sure, it only came every ten years but after three rounds, she looked forward to the fourth. Anxiously awaiting her forty-eighth birthday in a way few others do.

Anne had eyed it the moment she had breached the doorway – her target.

An inconspicuous silver bunny figurine. It was on all fours, small head nudged to the side and it reminded Anne of the farm she used to visit in the summers with her family.

It was easy to lean forward, the cool sting of the metal against her palm and with just a shift of her body the figurine dropped into her purse. The action took less than a minute and passed completely unnoticed.

She lets the feeling buzz under her skin throughout the interview, living in the fleeting moment.  She shakes the woman’s hand and is ushered to the door, confident that she would be quickly forgotten. In her decades of surveying, the nation’s people had only filed four complaints.  Peoples clutter all too easily becoming her trophies.

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