Just three more scrubs and the floor will be clean. Or maybe thirty-three. Yes, thirty-three and I’ll be done for now. I lift my head and take a look around my new apartment building. The smell of bleach is overpowering, but I will do what it takes to clean this disgusting apartment thoroughly.
I look back down at my scrub brush and continue rubbing the bleach into the hardwood floor, counting each push and pull. I can’t believe my luck. I have to call this vile place my home. The only reason I live here is because I broke a mirror. Well, technically I live here because my recent divorce has left me temporarily broke, but I never would have gotten a divorce, or moved to a shithole, or had years of bad luck if I hadn't accidentally broken a mirror. If it weren’t for the endless supply of cleaning products and the three bottles of bleach I have delivered each week, I don’t think I would be able to survive here.
I can’t even leave this appalling apartment and enter the even more god-awful neighborhood without a surgical mask, long-sleeve clothing, and rubber gloves and boots. As soon as I get enough money, I’m moving away from this vile idea of a city and forgetting that this part of my life ever occurred.
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