On a bedside table, a jar of what appeared to be face cream or moisturizer, a French brand—Yves Rocher. So rich and buttery, I am tempted to rub some of it on my face.

Quickly removing the rubber gloves from my hands, that stuck to my fingers. Always, the gloves felt moist, even wet inside. I thought there had to be a tiny pinprick in the rubber but I haven’t been able to locate it. Hated the feel of the gloves and wished never to have to wear them again.

It was rare that I paused to examine anything in a client’s house. The women whose houses I cleaned had little that appealed to me—clothes, jewelry, cosmetics, husbands. Possessions.

I wasn’t jealous/envious of their lives. In thrall to the husband, or rather to the idea of the husband of years before now fading, vanished.

Recalling my mother’s stricken face when Daddy stared at her coldly, insulted her. Look. You were the one who got pregnant, not me. You were the one who wanted children.

Sure he’d loved her. This was the voice of love. Sometimes meant to hurt, and sometimes just for laughs. For other men, husbands of other wives, could be counted upon to laugh heartily.

In the bathroom mirror the face was a wan hopeful girl’s face. Not a bad-looking face, I thought.

The scar at my hairline might’ve been a birthmark. Or a clever little rose tattoo. More than once I’d seen Metti glance at it and his glance linger. An exquisite sensation, to imagine the man pressing his mouth against it.

Also, I’d changed the color of my hair since the previous Thursday.

Metti had seen my hair as brown. If he’d noticed at all. Now it was glossy-jet-black, with “russet-red” highlights. Shorter, with bangs that fell to my eyebrows.

Changing the color of my hair at intervals. Though I knew that no one was stalking me still it seemed prudent to take measures to prevent someone from stalking me.

And the maroon lipstick, that smelled like overripe grapes.

I wasn’t so shy when I was alone. People who believed they knew me would’ve been astonished to see how brazenly I rubbed the fragrant French cream onto my face, neck, hands.

Telling myself no one would know. Whoever owned the cream had left it behind. If she did return, she wouldn’t ask Metti what had become of it. Or, she’d have forgotten it herself. Or, Metti would never bring her back.

Maybe he tired of them, quickly. That was the male prerogative.

More than one woman. I was sure, examining the evidence.

Thrilling to me, that my employer was cruel to women. Adult women.