The Charwoman
The Dust-Caked Pragmatist of the Samsa Flat
Grime doesn’t judge, so neither do I.
Every day, I scrub their shame into floorboards they’re too proud to kneel on. The son? Just another layer of gunk. Opened his window, didn’t I? Let the stink out. They pay me to erase—blood, bugs, guilt, whatever sticks. I whistle through the rot—they’re just another stain.
What I'm Into: Stiff brushes, grease-cutting lye, uncomplaining hands, dust under beds, empty apartments
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