Hired Help

This exercise is to write from a first-person point of view, while only using a first-person pronoun (referring to the narrator) twice in the entire story, which must be 600 words or less. Details can be found in The 3 a.m. Epiphany by Brian Kiteley.

“Unbelievable,” she snarled, as she flung the door open. “Late? Again? Good Lord, I should fire your sorry ass.” She paused in the doorway. “Well? What the hell are you waiting for? The house looks like shit, and I’ve got a guest coming in twenty minutes.”

“I’m sorry.” These were wasted words, as she had already flung herself back onto the flawless leather couch and was continuing a pointless conversation on her cell.

“Seriously. I know. I know. When you try so hard. You’re telling me. Mmhmm. It’s like, you know, like that one time. Yes. I know.”

The benefit of cleaning a 4,500 square foot house is that it allots plenty of places to hide from such inanity, and it seemed that the furthest corner of the house from where she sat always ended up the cleanest.

“ISaBELla,” she screeched, and no amount of speed could get me into her presence quickly enough. She carelessly tossed an envelope over, not even noticing when it landed in the bucket of water that had just been used to clean the Jacuzzi she used for nothing but the collection of dust. “I’ve docked you three hours of pay,” she hissed. “Perhaps next time, you’ll be on time. And no more excuses about the car breaking down, k?”

Three hours of pay? For four hours of work? It wasn’t enough to pay the electric bill, much less the rent. There was no point in arguing, even over the disparity between the five minutes of being late as opposed to the three hours she claimed.

The doorbell rang, and she breezed past. The nastiness had evaporated from her voice, and a murmured, sultry hello floated into the room.

It was the perfect opportunity to hastily clean the living room before she’d want to use it again. There was nothing worse than trying to please her critical eye. The one day, her wedding picture had to be readjusted ever so minutely no less than thirteen times before she’d concede that, well, it wasn’t perfect but it would have to do.

She was such a waste, really. It was hard to avoid bitterness towards the compassionless woman. The dwindling paychecks were never enough to deal with her degradations. She had nothing over me – the same level of education, similar looks, a comparable upbringing – but she’d married rich. That was apparently enough.

Muffled giggling drifted downstairs. The last task of the day required returning the clean, hand-monogrammed towels to the master bath, so there was no avoiding another potential encounter with her.

“Oh God, I love you so much,” she simpered from inside the bedroom. Had he come home?

An unfamiliar voice murmured sweet nothings and answered that question.
A towel slipped from the top of the stack, and it was just enough to draw her attention to the doorway. Clad in black lacy nothings, she looked up from the man she straddled on the freshly-made bed, suddenly speechless. He whirled to see what was distracting her.

“Babe,” he worried, “shit.”

She laughed – perhaps nervously – and pushed her foil-highlighted hair back. She didn’t seem to notice her almost-nudity. “It’s only the cleaning woman, Jack.”

He rolled away from her, much more aware of his own state of undress. He pulled his grease-stained coveralls back on, pleaded that he had to get back to work and disappeared from the room.

“Good thing you don’t speak English,” she smirked in his absence.

Funny how things work out. Only the cleaning woman had an important call to make that evening.

“Babe? It’s me. I’ve got something to tell you.”