The Pillsbury Cleaning Company
"She runs a cleaning service in the Pillsbury neighborhood—a thick ebony widow who employs a dozen Somali women. When he hires her to clean his new condo, she comes herself. Some messes require personal attention."
Iftin Cleaning Services has a spotless reputation.
Somali-owned, woman-run, trusted by buildings across Minneapolis. Iftin herself built it from nothing—a single mop and bucket twenty years ago.
I hire her for my new condo.
"When did you move in?"
"Last week. It's a mess."
"Ilaahay." She surveys the boxes and dust. Fifty-five years old. Two hundred and forty pounds of business owner energy. Ebony skin gleaming with determination. "I'll send a team."
"Could you come yourself?"
"I don't do cleaning anymore. I manage."
"I'd prefer you."
She studies me for a long moment.
"Tomorrow. Eight AM."
She arrives alone.
"Where's your team?"
"You wanted me." She sets down her supplies. "You got me."
She works with efficiency that comes from decades of practice. Corners I didn't notice suddenly shine. Surfaces I thought were clean become immaculate.
"You're incredible," I tell her.
"I'm thorough." She doesn't stop working. "Twenty years of this. You learn where dirt hides."
"Why did you start?"
"My husband died. No insurance. Three children. I had to survive."
"And now?"
"Now I employ forty women. Somali women who need work like I did." She finally looks at me. "We clean houses. We build lives."
She comes back every week.
Not her team. Her. Always her.
"You're overpaying for this," she tells me one day.
"I know."
"Then why?"
"Because I like your company."
"Waas." She waves dismissively. "I'm an old cleaning woman."
"You're a CEO who happens to clean my apartment."
"Same thing."
"Not even close."
"My husband used to say I worked too hard."
We're sitting on my couch. The cleaning is done. She should leave.
She doesn't.
"He said I'd clean myself into the grave. Then he died, and I realized—the grave comes anyway. Might as well build something while I'm here."
"But do you rest? Do you have anything for yourself?"
"I have my business. My women. My purpose."
"But do you have pleasure?"
She freezes.
"Pleasure is for people with time."
"You have time right now."
"I haven't been touched in eighteen years."
We're standing close now. Her mop forgotten.
"Eighteen years of work. Of building. Of being strong for everyone."
"You don't have to be strong right now."
"Then what should I be?"
"Human. Soft. Held."
She starts to cry.
I worship the cleaning woman.
Her body has worked harder than most. Ebony skin with calluses on her hands, strength in her thick arms. She gasps as I undress her.
"Eighteen years—" She's trembling. "I forgot what softness feels like—"
"Let me remind you."
I lay her on my clean sheets.
Her body is powerful—breasts heavy, belly soft, hips wide from years of bending and scrubbing. She's beautiful in her strength.
I kiss down her ebony flesh.
Spread her thick thighs.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams as my mouth finds her. Her hands grip my head.
"Eighteen years—" She's shaking. "So long—"
I lick her through four orgasms.
She's sobbing by the end.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—please—"
I strip. She watches with exhausted, grateful eyes.
"Subhanallah—"
"This is all for you."
I position myself.
I push inside the cleaning woman.
She cries out—eighteen years of work and loneliness breaking.
"So full—" Her arms wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I make love to her slowly.
She's worked hard enough. Now she gets gentleness.
She comes twice more, each time softer, sweeter.
"Ku shub—" She whispers. "Fill me—"
I release inside her.
We lie in my clean bed.
"I should go," she murmurs.
"Stay."
"I have work tomorrow."
"You always have work tomorrow." I pull her close. "Tonight, rest."
One Year Later
Iftin still runs her company.
But she takes weekends off now.
Spends them in my condo. In my bed. In my arms.
"Macaan," she moans. "My only mess."
The woman who cleans everything.
Finally letting herself get dirty.