This weekend, I stayed in a hotel while attending a workshop in Boston. After depositing my bag on the bed my eyes caught sight of a note, written on the front of a small envelope that was placed on the desk. The afternoon sun shone through the window and down upon it like a spotlight. “Don’t worry about a thing,” she wrote, “I’ll clean it all up. That’s why I’m here.” It was simply signed, Donna.
For someone whose tendencies gravitate towards calculating how much income I would need to afford a cleaning person, Donna had just what it took to lure me in and fulfill my fantasies. This was Nirvana covered in Belgian chocolate sauce.
She had me at housekeeper.
During our brief encounter, I’d leave every morning after having left towels in the tub, pillows on the floor and soap in the sink. When I returned, the room held wondrous delights of freshly made beds and perfectly folded towels. All from Donna, my fantasy girl. This felt naughty and potent. Not to mention safe, since we never once needed to meet. It was probably even better than an affair, since I selfishly took everything offered by Donna without reciprocity or worry. I briefly wondered if this is what it felt like to be a guy…
Alas, it ended all too soon. Forty-eight hours after I found Donna’s alluring note, I checked out of the hotel. When I left, I didn’t bother with those little bottles of shampoo or any other booty often snatched by the typical hotel guest, as I desired none of those. The only thing I really wanted to take home was the one thing I couldn’t: Donna. Now all I have of our brief affair is a photo of that note.
Today, my house is a mess of floors that need washing, a laundry pile under which I’m certain a small sofa is hiding and containers in the fridge that have morphed from palatable leftovers into colorful science experiments. I don’t even want to think about what’s happening in the bathroom. Life can be messy, Donna wrote. Words of wisdom.
She said she’d be there if I needed anything, that all I needed to do was press 0. I have tried, but she hasn’t come. Perhaps she became tepid with the one-sidedness of our relationship. Maybe she needed more. I only know that I am, as of today, destined to scrubbing my own damned toothpaste-encrusted sink and adjusting to this post-Donna world.
Wherever you are, Donna, I miss you. I raise my toilet brush in salute of our memories.
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