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definite scent of sexual intercourse in the air.
    “Shit! Someone had a social event in here on the weekend!” I laughed at my naiveté for thinking that a blind man couldn’t or wouldn’t have sex. I had no idea what the guy looked like as there were no photos or pictures in the house, but from his uptight attitude I’d pictured the man in his fifties with some sort of OCD—a bit like Jack Nicholson in that movie. Maybe I’d need to revise that image.
    I walked into the laundry and noted that the mess and chaos hadn’t actually made it to all the rooms—the study and the other bedroom were still neat as a pin. Someone had been in the laundry, though—someone other than Mr. Stanford. Two doors on the cabinet were wide open and cleaning products had been pulled out but not put away. A pile of dirty towels lay on the floor.
    Despite this, Mr. Stanford had managed to still leave me my orders.
    Dear Mrs. Huntley,
Concentrate on clearing the floor today so I don’t trip over again.
You may leave your other set tasks for another day.
    Sincerely,
    P. Stanford.
    Usually the notes would send me into laughter. (Please note, I do not giggle. I don’t.) This note, however, did not. There was still no sign of a please or thank-you, but instead I zeroed in on the first line: so I don’t trip over again.
    Again.
    Whoever had been in the house with Mr. P. Stanford this weekend was no friend. No friend would leave such a mess for a blind man. The risk of him actually doing himself serious harm was quite great. Whoever Mr. Stanford had partied with was not a compassionate person. They were selfish and ignorant. And it made me angry.
    Yes, I was upset at the mess I had to clean up—but I could let that go. It was my job after all. It’s what they paid me for. But the callous disregard for a man’s safety rubbed me the wrong way. Mr. Stanford might be rude and bossy, but in the past week he had become my rude and bossy man. I took pride in completing the tasks set before me in a manner he couldn’t find fault with. It had become a game in a way—see if he can find a mistake.
    So I rolled up my metaphorical sleeves (my shirt was short-sleeved and didn’t need to be rolled) and got to work. I started in the kitchen, stacking dishes in the dishwasher and setting it running. I filled bags with rubbish and food scraps and scrubbed at stains on the floor.
    When the lounge room was all in order and the kitchen in better shape, I started on the bedroom. I hauled sheets and blankets to the laundry to be washed, unraveling the tangle on the floor that had been kicked aside.
    That’s when I found it.
    A butt plug.
    A blue silicone butt plug.
    Of course I knew what one was. I was a gay man, wasn’t I? I’d read porn magazines and checked out the ads. I’d never seen a butt plug in real life, but I sure knew what one was.
    Now the question I had running through my mind was: who actually used this? Did this belong to Mr. Stanford’s sexual partner? Or did it belong to him? Did he use it on himself?
    I only knew about gay men using the device, but now that I thought about it, it could be used for both sexes. And there’s no reason why a straight man couldn’t use it. So was Mr. Stanford straight or gay? Did this even belong to him?
    I picked up the offending instrument using a towel and took it to the laundry. I wasn’t sure if cleaning sex toys was in the instructions left by Housekeepers Inc., but I was sure going to look when I found wherever the manual had been chucked. In the meantime, that little blue silicone puppy was not going near any of my clean sheets or clean surfaces!
    I ran hot water into a bucket with some disinfectant and plopped it in to soak, all the while pondering what to do about it.
    By finishing time, the house was mostly clear of debris. Piles of washing still graced the laundry floor, but the other rooms were clear of potential hazards. I hadn’t got around to dusting or vacuuming the other areas of the