The quiet stillness in the room, the sound of the green bristled broom brushing quick strokes over the cold ceramic tiled floor. It was somehow comforting, like the sound of home.
I loved when the maid came because it was a time when I slept best. I'd sit on my bed reading but not reading, silence broken by the sound of the faucet turning, water running warmly into the red plastic bucket, soap mixing and building up foamy suds. Her shoes as she clip clopped over the tiles. She always wore heels to clean. The splash of the water as she squeezed excess till it was just right, not too sloppy, not too dry. Swish of the mop and my book closed, dropped to the floor as my eyes shut, drowsiness pervading my body. She left quietly, taking the money set out on the coffee table. 3 times a week she came. No one needs a floor that clean.