1: Want Ads

How I Became a Catgirl Maid

(Working Title)

by

Tammy Silverwolf

Domestic Assistant Wanted

Domestic Assistant wanted to help care for six bedroom estate on lower west end. We are a career minded couple with a teenager that visits periodically, responsibilities would include cleaning, cooking, occasionally cleaning our cars (not strictly necessary, but would be a bonus). The occasional massage might also be requested. A uniform is required and will be provided.

Pay to be negotiated in person but will be paid in cash at the end of each week and your taxes can be handled by our accountant for free. Live in is an option if we find you to be a good fit for us after a trial period. Open mind and communication skills are required. Please don’t send an email if you’re not able to fulfill those requirements.”

 

Kimberly Williams wheeled back from the computer after sending her email, combing her long straw blonde hair back with an audible sigh as she looked towards the cupboards, already knowing full well what she’d find there; nothing.

Like the pool of past due bills cascading down her desk into the trash, she could feel a rumbling tension in her stomach when something above her creaked. Old man Vickers was awake it seemed. It wouldn’t be long before her landlord would come down to bug her about rent, but what the hell was she going to say? She’d run out of ‘I’m trying’ chances long ago and ‘just one more week’ was probably out the window too.

Kim scrubbed her face with her palm, muttering, “forty and broke. What a fucked up joke, it wasn’t like I picked up the weed and took a toke.” It was barely six in the morning and alone in her little one bedroom apartment she may as well have been on the moon for all the support she was going to get. A less cynical soul would have called it the starving artists’ life. Idiots who didn’t understand just how much starvation could suck the interest – and will– to create art in the first place. Her stomach rumbled quietly to remind her of that very problem.

“Bah.” She hoped out of her chair and wandered over to the fridge, finding a jar of pickle water in the bottom shelf. The only thing left in the old Vlassic jar were some seeds and the green water used to keep them fresh. Her bright green eyes lingered on the jar dubiously. Really? Was she really going to do this?

Kim brought the jar to her lips and held her breath. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine vegetable juice or something– just as the liquid touched her lips her computer chirped its lonesome sound of an email received.

It couldn’t be. Could it? The ad had been posted less than ten minutes ago– she wandered over to the computer on shaky knees. Her brows raised when she saw the subject: “RE: Domestic Assistant – 40/S/F” Kim wasn’t one to pray but her mind belted out a quick Hail Marry from what she could remember of it as she clicked through the interface to open the email.

Miss Williams,

I hope you are well and thank you for the kind words about being specific; it’s a skill that’s served me quite well during my time in the Army and now in my civilian life. I didn’t expect such a quick response but your enthusiasm makes me think we’d get along quite well.

If you’re not busy, I’d like to meet you with my wife before I have to leave for work. There’s a cafe on Oak street we usually have breakfast and we’d be delighted for you to join us so we can discuss the preliminaries of the job and see if we’re a good fit.

Just let me know!

Elliot McKenna”

Her heart slammed against her ribs like the beating of a war drum, adrenaline surging through her as she mashed the reply button as quickly as she could. She went to type but realized she was still clutching the pickle jar. She threw it over her shoulder without thinking– dammit! – but there was work to be had! She could clean it up later–

This was too important.

Kim’s fingers flew over the keys, clacking out a reply that she hoped sounded professional and intelligent. Occasionally she muttered her thoughts into the ether. “Good house keeper. No references. . .” certainly not her own apartment “if you’re not satisfied, don’t pay me. . . Happy to meet you, thank you. Be there soon. . .” and send.

Pop.

The screen on her computer plunged into darkness. The power LED on the front of the tower likewise went dark. She looked over to her nightstand to find her alarm clock as black as her monitor. The power was completely cut off.

Instead of pouting or cursing, though, she through her fist into the air in victory. “Fuck you, Agro-Power! I have a job interview!”

Kimberly spun the chair, hopped up– her left foot splashed into the wet spot left by the pickle juice. It was going to be a day of mixed blessings, it seemed. . . “Fuck.”

 

Continue –>

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