The way that the other would roam around the house with his little scarf pulled up above his nose, in his tight, cleaning outfit….
For a man who looked so done with the world, for a man who looked like he could care less if you terrorized a nation of kittens, he looked like this was the only thing that he enjoyed. He only looked the slightly bit amused as he sprayed windows with the cleaner, and then rubbed at it in focused streaks until the windows were all nice and clean.
Though, he looked like he got the most joy cleaning my office, crawling along the floor, seemingly purposely sticking out his rear in a suggestive manner, and if he wasn't wearing that safety scarf around his mouth and nose, I could swear that he was smirking beneath it. He knew exactly what he was doing to me, and he loved every second of it, loathed it.
And as he'd lay there, he'd stretch out, almost like a feline, allowing his lower portion to slide against the stone tiles, his hind-quarters sticking high, almost proudly in the air as his back would crack, a small hitch in his breath signifying the fact that the action was relieving.
And when he'd sweep the room, it was like watching him dance. He organized the books almost every day, given my guests often misplaced them, and he seemed to get a thrill out of putting them in numerical and alphabetical order. He'd spray the windows and wipe them clean with a look of content.
But the thing that got me every single time was the fact that he never spoke, nor did he even look me directly in the eyes. The only noises he made were a small chuckle, or a soft snort. What I presumed by his chuckle was that his voice was fairly deep, despite…well, his height. He was incredibly short.
If I remembered correctly, his name was Levi.
My wife had hired him almost a year ago, but given she was never home and always flying across the country for her job, she never talked about him or mentioned him, given she was only home for maybe five days a month. I, on the other hand, ran a business here, in Germany.
Levi, if that was his name, if I remember correctly, came from France.
I had a sexy, French maid working in my house, who never talked, always looked like he was going to kill someone or something if he wasn't scrubbing the floor. He'd walk around the house, almost strutting around like he owned the place, with a feather-duster in his hand, brushing it over literally everything in the house. The clacking of his black heels- yes, he worked in heels- hitting the floor sent chills up my spine each time I heard him walking closer and closer to my office area.
Now of course, it was wrong of me to have these thoughts, I was a married man. I was married to a fine woman who deserved my loyalty and respect, despite the fact that she was away. My wife would probably kill me and dump my body in acid if she ever figured out these sick dreams of mine.
But these fantasies of mine ran through my mind constantly. They couldn't go away even if I tried to make them leave.
Even if he were to be fired, he was too damn amazing to ever forget.
Though one day, I had walked in on him doing something completely unexpected in the bathroom.
He was sitting on the floor; like he usually did when he cleaned the bathroom, but he was leaning more forward than he usually was, hell, he even had his mask off of his face, spewing profanities like lyrics to a song. He was scrubbing harshly at something on the floor.
"Get off the floor you piece of shit! Your lousy-ass kind doesn't belong here…" The maid nearly growled at whatever he was scrubbing. Whatever it was, it got him angry. His eye-brows were knitted in obvious frustration, his lips nearly drawn back, baring his teeth, almost like a savage animal.
And by my earlier presumption, yes, he had a deep voice.
And it was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.
"Might I ask what you're doing?" I chuckled, glaring down at the younger man as I walked towards him.
And when he finally looked my dead in the eyes, he had a devious smirk on his face before he picked up the squirt-bottle, and pulled the trigger, splashing me in the face with the water.
"What the hell was that for!?" I hissed, rubbing my eyes, attempting to get the water out of them. Truly, that itched, and that was quite rude of him.
"I was getting you to finally talk to me."