After my wife left me, I hired a maid to keep things together. She was quiet, efficient, and impossibly observant. She noticed the half-empty whiskey bottles, the way my bed stayed unmade for days. One afternoon, she didn’t just clean—she sat beside me and asked if I was okay.

When she touched my arm, I should’ve pulled away. But loneliness won. Her hands traced my chest, then my belt. Before long, she was straddling me on the couch, her breath hot in my ear. Now, every cleaning session ends with her pressed against me somewhere in the house. I know this is reckless, but in those moments, I don’t care.