I met this pretty young woman in the foyer a week ago. She was carrying a vacuum cleaner and a pail of cleaning materials. "Are you a cleaning lady?" I asked.
Who uses the word "lady" anymore?
Anyway, she said yes. I asked about price and hired her on an-every-other-week-basis. Her name is Seattle, and she and her friend, Shawndra, (I'm guessing on spelling) cleaned the apartment with natural products, heavy on the vinegar. It was shining. I keep opening my refrigerator just to see the gleaming shelves. The floors look amazing.
I'm feeling sublime about Seattle, who has, by the way, never been to Seattle.
I started a novel once where a single mother had three daughters named after the western cities where they were born: Seattle, Boise, and Cheyenne (each from a different father).
The novel takes place in Salt Lake City in a large old apartment on South Temple,
The Buckingham, which is just down the block from where we live. The mother has a new boyfriend and the youngest daughter is writing a paper about Fritillary butterflies, which look like Monarchs but are not. I learned a lot about butterflies working on that book. Seattle was the sixteen year old protagonist.
No, the mother didn't have a baby named Salt Lake City.
I still love those characters. They are like old friends.
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