Time to come clean: there’s another man in my life.
We rendezvous once a fortnight. He slips in, wipes away my worries and leaves no finger prints to suggest he’s touched me up.
He’s discreet, meticulous and does everything I ask of him. Even scrub the toilet.
He’s got Gumption and he’s not afraid to use it. Especially on the floor tiles.
You pun’d out? I have a cleaner. My boyfriend thinks it’s me.
Wipe the judgey look from your face. Before surface tension develops between us, let me explain.
I don’t chalk this up as a ‘lie’. I don’t flat-out claim ‘Sadie’ is my middle name and it’s me scrubbing this place from top to bottom. Don’t picture an image of me stretched out on the couch with a washer over my forehead, as he walks through the door claiming “the bleach has made me woozy”.
He’ll come home to a spotless home and say, “This looks great.” My reply is simply, “Doesn’t it?” Technically, I just omit the part where there was a third party in this lemon-scented debacle.