Flash Fiction is growing in popularity . . . so I thought I'd have another go . . . . this one is called Beryl.
Beryl is a scrubber. For Beryl there is no greater pleasure than to be elbow deep in a bucket full of soapy suds and on her knees scrubbing every inch of dirt from the cracked linoleum that is Mr Baxter's kitchen floor. Her fingers are scrubbed red raw; the detergent stings, but Beryl refuses to wear gloves, professing to dislike the smell of rubber and, she explains, they make her hands hot.
Mr Baxter, in his big black policeman boots, treads slow deliberate footprints across the kitchen floor. Muddy and thick. They lead to a stool from where Mr Baxter sits to watch Beryl work; from where he watches her wobbling bare buttocks sway rhythmically in time with the scrubbing. Later, Mr Baxter will make Beryl a nice cup of tea and pay her handsomely for her trouble.