Fight For You

Chapter One.

I was eating Lucky Charms in my New York studio apartment when I received a call from a very wealthy businessman who was in serious need of a cleaner. I had partaken in an interview just a week earlier when he kindly told me, "I'll let you know," before grasping my hand and shaking it.

I didn't answer: when I was in his house, I caught him staring at my ass at least four times in each room. He insisted, "Ladies first". Yeah, ladies first my Colombian ass. I knew a pervertido when I saw one.

And then he called again. Wow, twice. I must have an impressive ass.

I fished around the last of my cereal in the bowl before I drank the milk down. I checked my watch. 8:20 a.m.. It was still early.

I padded into my kitchen, watching the wind blow gently against my transparent curtains. I placed the bowl into the sink, careful to take care of the porcelain, and decided to go take a shower. Coming back into my living room-slash-bedroom, I climbed onto my queen sized mattress with comfortable, fluffy white pillows with a matching comforter to look for my television remote. When I found it under my pillow, I turned the television on. I turned my dvd player on which held hulu, netflix, facebook, pandora, etc., and clicked on pandora.

When it signed into my account and Aurora began singing in her beautiful voice, I rolled out of my bed and walked over to my dresser.

I didn't wear too much color. I mostly stuck to black, white, or red. So, today, I chose a pair of black skinny jeans and a white tank top. I'd be going out to find a new job today, so I needed to look as presentable and comfortable as possible while walking around.

I went into my bathroom and turned the shower on. I stripped down and pulled my long black hair into a bun. I looked into the mirror. My eyes were brown--almost black--and my cheekbones were defined, a trait I'd gotten from my mother. She was born in Colombia when she met my father who was black. He'd traveled from Chicago when he met her in a bar where they danced for hours. They fell in love a couple months afterward and got hitched. Then my mom got pregnant with my older brother, Antonio. And then she had me a few years later, naming me Zoe.

When we came to the states, my mother had to gain her citizenship. For a job, she became a maid for rich white people who treated her like mierda. She would tell me, "Listen to me, mija. Don't take anything from anyone. Even if you live your life like mine. Speak up and defend your rights. They're yours for a reason."

And that's what I did. Even though I became a maid just like her, it was mostly something I did in memory of her. She passed away two years ago. Thinking of her made tears well up in my eyes. When I looked in the mirror, I saw her. And I wanted to make her proud, no matter what. I could have been a teacher since I held degree in teaching and a bachelor's in English literature. But, I wanted to be close to her.

So, I advertised myself as a maid for those rich pricks and I didn't allow myself to be treated like mierda. I honored her name.

There was nothing bad to the job I did. I had been helping my mother clean ever since I was a niña, so I was a natural at what I did.

I shut the water off and climbed out the shower. I walked over to the bathroom door and took my towel off the hook before I wrapped it around my body. I let my hair down and left the bathroom. I quickly dried off and reached over for my remote. I changed the radio on pandora. When Lean On made its way through my speakers, I tossed the remote back onto my bed.

I put on lotion, making sure to pay special attention to my legs and arms. Then I pulled on a pair of underwear, and then a bra.

My body was nothing to look at, really. It was small. My chest was somewhere between a B and an A cup, and my butt was also petite. My mother used to tell me that I wasn't built like a Colombian woman, and my father would just chuckle, wrapping an arm around me and would say, "Small women run through my family, baby, it's okay," and he'd kiss my forehead.