There is a woman. She watches me whenever I am at the sink washing the dishes. She wears a strapless red dress, long and form fitting; quite formal for the occasion, really. And her hair, short and spiked. Some might find a chemical product to try to soften its coarseness. But, no, not her. She prides herself on this. It is who she is.

Now, I take her by her tiny waist and turn her upside down. Her eyes don’t even close as her head enters the soapy water. I just know her candy apple red lipstick laden lips are still smiling, as her bristly ‘do scrubs the pot, sloshing in the soapy suds.