Hung Out to Dry
By Gordy Fluffer — Because nothing snaps quite like a clothesline and a thigh.
—
The sound of a recliner releasing its hostage echoed through the living room as Harold shifted, groaned, and scratched something that didn't need scratching.
"I still don't know why we need a cleaner," he muttered. "We don't even use half the house. That guest room hasn’t seen a guest since Obama was in office."
Glenn, halfway through a Sudoku and a full glass of iced tea, didn’t look up. “Because I’m tired of pretending we’ll eventually wipe down the baseboards.”
“We don’t even look at the baseboards.”
“We do when the dust starts to develop character.”
Harold grunted. “So what, this guy’s coming today?”
“No. The service is sending someone,” Glenn corrected. “Could be a woman. Could be a man. Could be a team.”
As if summoned, there was a knock at the door—three sharp raps and one long one, like the percussion solo in a telenovela.
Glenn froze. Harold didn’t. He stood with a groan, adjusted his waistband, and shuffled to the door like a man bracing for a subscription box of disappointment.
He opened it—and blinked.
And blinked again.
Because standing there, glowing faintly under the Arizona sun, was a man built like confidence itself. Broad, thick, sun-kissed, and smiling like someone who knew secrets about lemon oil. He wore a sky-blue tank with the words “Santo Limpio” in bold white print across the chest.
Slung over one shoulder was a soft-sided cleaning kit—sky-blue canvas, reinforced handles, and “Sparkle Daddy Professional Services” embroidered in gold thread like it was a law firm or a drag act that took bookings.
“Hello!” the man beamed. “I am Rafael. I clean. Where is your filth?”
Harold opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Behind him, Glenn whispered reverently, “We are.”
---
Rafael surveyed the living room like it was a stage. Then, without comment, he unzipped his oversized cleaning kit, scanned the space, and disappeared down the hallway.
Harold squinted. “Is he going to the laundry room?”
Glenn nodded slowly. “There’s still a load in the washer. I meant to move it this morning.”
Moments later, they heard the back door open.
And then they saw him.
Out back, through the living room’s big picture window, Rafael stood beneath the clothesline like it was his runway. His bandana was tied, his sleeves rolled, and he held a basket of their clean, wet laundry like it was offering tribute to the sun.
He began to hang the clothes—one item at a time—with practiced, deliberate care. Shirts snapped in the breeze as he clipped them with precision. Towels were folded over the line like he was staging a gallery opening. And then the underwear. Slowly. Reverently. With full hip engagement.
Glenn (whispering): “He just snapped your boxer briefs like a flag.”
Harold: “And planted them like a victory banner.”
Glenn: “This is art.”
---
From the recliners, they could hear the subtle clink of spray bottles being arranged. The distant hum of humming. A drawer opened. Closed. Then, silence—pregnant with potential.
And then he entered the kitchen.
Rafael moved like he had all day and no competition. His body was thick in a way that defied expectation—solid, soft in places, strong in others. A generous middle hugged by drawstring shorts that rode low but stayed loyal. His arms were dusted with soft hair, forearms firm from actual work, not gym vanity. Thighs like bread fresh from the oven: golden, dependable, and absolutely deserving of worship.
And he squatted.
Low. Balanced. Like he was communing with the tile.
Harold (squinting): “He’s wiping the baseboards. Using a different cloth.”
Glenn: “That’s the green one. He used blue in the bathroom. I think he’s got a system.”
Harold: “What kind of man has a cloth system?”
Glenn (quietly, Googling): “A man who cares.”
Rafael, still crouched low, moved in steady, controlled strokes. He switched cloths mid-motion—blue to green—like a magician with standards.
When he reached the edge of the cabinet, he flipped the cloth with a wrist flick that honestly belonged on a dance floor.
Harold: “That was a flourish. That was a performance flourish.”
Glenn (softly): “God, that’s hot.”
---
Rafael finished the once-around—a quick glide through the hallway, a wipe of the guest bath mirror, a spritz of something that smelled like eucalyptus and secrets.
Then, silence.
Glenn peeked around the edge of his crossword. “Is he… done?”
Harold checked the hallway. “Not a streak in sight.”
As if summoned, Rafael reappeared, towel slung over one shoulder, the faintest sheen on his brow. He surveyed the room with a proud nod, then pulled a tiny notebook from his kit.
“Laundry: washed and drying,” he said, ticking the list. “Kitchen: sanitized, sparkling, reorganized slightly—only for efficiency. Quick once-around: complete. Guest towels fluffed. Sink drain... blessed.”
Glenn blinked. “You blessed the drain?”
“I lit a match. It’s the same thing.” Rafael flashed a grin, then turned back to the list. “That concludes today’s service. Next time—windows, yes?”
Neither man spoke.
Rafael tucked the notebook away, hoisted his kit effortlessly over one shoulder, and made for the door. Just before he exited, he paused, turned halfway, and said with a smile, “By the way—I like the recliners. Excellent vantage point.”
And then he was gone.
The door clicked shut.
Glenn stared into the quiet.
Harold blinked slowly. “He heard us.”
“Oh, he absolutely did.”
Glenn sipped his drink. “Think we’ll get him next time?”
“I think we’ll need to.”
They sat in silence, watching the laundry shift gently on the line. The boxer briefs fluttered in the breeze like a flag of surrender.
End.