Taming Mr. Robinson

7. Secrets.

The contract is more like a handbook of instructions but I read it anyway, I read it like I'm trying to pass a course...and in a way, I am.
In a way, the contract seems unfair; the leverage it gives Mr. Robinson to ask, demand, and request, the way he can easily take up my free weekends, and how the contract can be orally changed if he pleases.
I read on anyway and learn more things, like the fact he is allergic to peanuts, he hates colored cereal, and only eats pancakes on Wednesdays.
It also stipulates that he would leave his weekly dirty laundry in a bag at my door every Friday and I must have it hanging at his door Sunday evening.
The rest of the huge contract is filled with "Mays or May nots" for the maid.

The maid May take the car to visit relatives.
The maid May Not use any other car aside from the KIA, whether in an emergency or not.

The maid May raise her concerns within the boundaries of her work.
The maid May Not question the actions or decisions of Mr. Robinson on any occasion unless permitted.

I practically roll my eyes every five minutes into reading the contract and by the time I'm done, it's almost noon.

With a little more confidence due to the information from the contract, I make oven-baked bacon risotto and iced tea, determined to impress him.

Things were going to change.
They just had to.

Today will be the last time he makes a fool out of me, and with that thought in mind, I keep the dish warm in the microwave then sit on the couch in the living room, awaiting his return.

I don't know how long I wait before I realize it's already 1. If I was going to wait, I'd have to keep busy. I spend the next 30 minutes cleaning and wiping and organizing before exhaustion takes over and I retreat to my bedroom, giving up on my anticipating his return.

****

The fumbling wakes me up.
Loud fumbling, hitting, and slamming on the wall and the first thing that comes to my mind is that the house is being robbed.

Cellphone in hand, I quietly climb out of bed and open the door, fear gripping me at the worst possible moment and my first instinct is to call Mr. Robinson when I realize, I don't even have his number.

Don't call me. He had instructed me the day of my interview. The sight that greets me, however, sends my body numb and causes the phone to fall from my hand.

Mr. Robinson has his hand buried deep in a lady's hair and the other hand somewhere inside her dress.
His black button shirt is already unbuttoned halfway and he isn't wearing his jacket or tie.
The dark-haired lady has a hand fumbling with his belt buckle and the other grasping his shoulder for support with her moans suppressed against his lips.

The belt buckle comes undone and he swoops her up in one swift move, still kissing her as she giggles.
I don't know how long I stand, shocked, as I watch them exit to Mr. Robinson's bedroom and once the door slams shut, the spell on me is broken.

I have to blink severally to establish that I'm not dreaming before I pick up my phone.

So, now I know why I cannot question his actions, decisions and must respect his 'privacy'.

Sighing, I rub the bridge of my nose to minimize the growing headache as I make my way towards the kitchen.
At the top of the stairs, I stare at Mr. Robinson's silk black tie, and I trace the scrap to the next piece of clothing which is a hairband, and it continues. His jacket, a black purse, his shoes, her stilettos, and his bunch of keys.

Wonderful.
I'm babysitting as well.

I roll my eyes at the mess before I resume to pick them up and arrange them neatly in the living room. Then I wrap the risotto and put it in the deep freezer before I lock up and head back to my room, not anticipating tomorrow at all.