Gentlemanly, soft-spoken. Expressing (mostly) satisfaction with the work I’d done. Pressing tips into my hand.

It was a matter of anxiety to me, standing only a few inches away from my well-groomed employer, that possibly/probably I smelled of my body after hours of dragging a vacuum cleaner through the apartment, stooping to scour tub, shower stalls, toilet bowls, tile floors. Cleaning, polishing, buffing fixtures until they gleamed with manic and pointless intensity as I’d been instructed.

Sweated through the thin white T-shirt, you could see the shadowy outlines of my breasts, nipples. If you wished to look.

My forehead was damp, oily. The little star-shaped scar at my hairline throbbed with heat.

Out of shyness/cageyness I did not exactly look Orlando Metti in the face. My wistful glances at the man were sidelong, covert. It had become my way to register the world in quick sidelong glances hoping that the world would do no more than glance at me in turn.

Metti was amused by me, it seemed. The little star-shaped scar intrigued him but (of course) (as it intrigued many men) he was too polite to inquire about something so personal.

“Would you like a drink, Violet?”

So unexpected a question, I thought at first that it might be a joke. A test? Heard myself stammer No.

Standing very still, smiling inanely.

At Maid Brigade we’d been warned of certain of our (male) customers but no one had named Orlando Metti as a threat.

“Are you sure? Wine spritzer, vodka soda?”

The damp T-shirt was sticking to my skin. Damp hair straggling down my neck, hot-tingling scar on my forehead. Determined not to scratch the scar with my fingernails and inflame it.

“I guess—not. But thank you, Dr. Metti.”

“Next time then?”

“I—I don’t know . . .”

Metti laughed at my stammering reply as if I’d meant to be amusing.

Now staring more frankly at my forehead—the scar that felt so livid, alive. Wondering if indeed it was a scar, or a birthmark. Tattoo?

Would you like to tongue it? Kiss it? Suck it?

Feeling dizzy, as Orlando Metti smiled at me.

“Y’know, Violet—you could take a shower here. I mean—if you wished. Before leaving.”

Another unexpected remark I could not answer. My face pounded hotly with blood.

Metti laughed again, and relented: “All right, Violet. Don’t look so alarmed. We’ll plan for some future time. What I’d like you to do now is—”

Drop off clothes at the nearby dry cleaner. Drop off a prescription at the nearby drugstore. Or, take the dog for a quick walk, he hadn’t the time or patience for his daughter’s damned dog today.

HE MEANT TO INSULT ME. ALLOWING ME TO KNOW HE COULD smell my body.

He meant to excite me. Allowing me to know he could smell my body.