Elbow deep in dirty dishwater, I threw back my head and cried out her name…
Someday, somehow, somewhere, we’ll be together. I just have to hang in here long enough for fate to connect us out of billions. Her gentle green eyes haunt my every chore, promising relief, freedom… joy of the purest kind.
I know my fantasy is horribly politically incorrect, especially after this, but I really don’t care. I dream of my Marta the way soldiers dream of peace, the way golfers pine for the snow to melt. She is the light at the end of my tunnel, a constant, almost physical, presence giving hope to my housework addled self.
I would know her if I saw her on the street – the vision has become so tangible. Over the years, I’ve modeled every feature of my model maid. But I doubt there really is a Marta. And if, by some miracle of justice, she does exist, somewhere out there, I’m sure she’d have better things to do than our dishes!