She ignores me when I tell her this is not true.
I clean because the alternative is infuriating. I can’t live like a hog. I can’t think. When I sit down to read or write all and all I can see is dirt or dust or a plate or a cup or a stain or fluff – I get restless. It makes me hot.
I try to man up and ignore it, but, it wins. For fuck sake, it wins.
I am not a good cleaner, but I am efficient.