Red lipstick on everything. On tea cups. On mugs. On stealthy cigarettes put out in the sink and shoved into the depths of the bin.
On her cheek. Her thighs. The undersides of her breasts.
She has come in and marked everything. Claimed everything. Those red swatches blazing, the scent of her perfume lingering on the sheets, Molly's hair and the jumper she borrowed because the heat is shit in Molly's flat.
And oh Molly is dazzled, but it is clear she is also dazzling, if the look on Irene's face when she says good morning, drowsy and soft, is any indication.
She'd forgotten what it's like to be the object of awe, not just the one kneeling, abject.
Though there is plenty of that. In these circumstances, though, it serves to make her feel more powerful. It's true what they say, how much power there is in handing over control.
Molly finishes the washing up, and if she neglects to clean that last bit of red from the rim of Irene's favorite cup, it's not from lack of care. She is, in fact, so very careful to leave just the slightest trace of lipstick on the cup. Enough to be noticed.
Enough to elicit that wicked gleam in Irene's eye as she says, "Oh Darling, you've been very, very bad."