All morning long a singing Russian woman has whipped about the house, cleaning up all of my messes. Her accent is thick, her singing quiet and hard to hear. Hidden safely away back in my office, I strain my ears, trying to make out the words. Is it a trap? Does she try to lure me out?
And what about a picture? Do I dare risk it? What if she’s retired KGB? Can my sternum survive a heavy, well placed blow from the blunt end of her mop handle? She’s large, but I sense more then see the quickness in her step. One wrong move and I fear she will bag me right along with the rest of the trash. And because she carries all her own cleaning supplies, she would leave behind no trace that I was ever even here in the house.
The vacuum is running! I will sneak up in the noise!