Removed the shower cap, fluffed out the glossy-black hair. Still there was maroon lipstick on my mouth, smudged. The buttery-rich cream had worn off in the shower and so I applied more to my face, flushed now from the heat of the shower.

Made my way barefoot, wrapped in the towel, to the room where Metti kept his liquor. Had not Metti invited me to join him in a drink, more than once? Of course I’d always declined. But now, brazenly I went to the liquor cabinet and poured an inch or two of whiskey into a glass.

It was an experiment: observing myself. Smiling at Metti as he handed it to me. Thank you, Dr. Metti!

In small cautious swallows I consumed the whiskey. When men bought me drinks I did not always drink them but found ways to dispose of them. But when I did drink, I became sleepy. And now, I was very sleepy.

I intended to dress quickly, and to complete the housecleaning. If Metti was to return home before I left, he would return in about forty minutes; he’d already left a tip for me on a table in the foyer, a sign that he might not be returning.

I had not yet taken the tip. That would be my reward, when I completed my housecleaning.

In Metti’s bedroom the bright sunshine of an hour before, that had spilled through the tall windows, had become muted, bleak. The king-sized bed was awkward to make, requiring a fitted bottom sheet. As soon as I’d arrived to do the cleaning that afternoon I’d stripped the bed to throw the sheets into the laundry and in the interval I’d begun to make the bed with fresh sheets. You do not want to use the same sheets each week. Nor hang the same towels in the bathroom each week. In the midst of making the bed I’d become diverted by the Yves Rocher face cream on the bedside table.

So very sleepy, I had to lie down on the bed. Shut my eyes for only a moment, I thought.

Should’ve removed the maroon lipstick but too tired. If Metti saw, he would know . . .

But too sleepy. Sleep like ether lifting into my brain.

Then I was asleep. That delicious voluptuous sleep like floating in dark water. No dreams, for the water is too shallow. Yet the water is deep enough to cover your mouth, nose, eyes. And soon then, it seemed that I was being wakened—not by a light switched on to blind me, nor by an exclamation of surprise, but by a sudden presence close by.

The man had returned, and was standing in the doorway of the room, staring at me.

Utterly astonished. Staring.

Outside the tall windows the wan winter light had shifted. Hours had been lost, it was much later in the day. There were no lights in the bedroom.