There's a woman in the city. She lives in an apartment and tries to keep it clean. There are dust bunnies and cigarette butts and soap scum and pieces of plastic lying around on the floor. There's hair on the ground and in the drain, long red strands that fall from her scalp. There's coffee residue on the kitchen table, around the bathroom sink, and there a sticky area behind the toilet where a reddish film coats the floor. The cat litter has begun to escape from it's box and pebbles - gray, sea foam, light pink, cover the bathroom floor and work themselves in between the tiles. Floating tufts of the cat's hair drift by, bobbing up and down in the breeze.
Once a week the woman who lives in the apartment tries to clean it. She has sponges, and grocery bags in which to put her collections of dust, skin and hair. She fills plastic buckets with warm water and pours the water over the floor, rinsing the grime from the white tiles. She runs hot water in the bathtub, dirt and hairs separate from its porcelain sides and turn the water grey, before the mixture whooshes, spiraling, down the drain. Her soap smells like flowers and leaves behind an invisible residue, chalky to the touch.
She finishes cleaning, leaves her apartment, and hits the street. Her wrinkled hands start to feel themselves again as they dry in the city air, her hair still feels stiff and brittle from the sweat that collected in it as she scrubbed surfaces. She walks down steps that lead underground, to the subway, grey, orange and red and emerges among skyscrapers, tall, square and glinting in the sunlight, reflected in each other, their windows rhythmically pulsing towards the sky, blue and cloudless. She walks in shadow, protected from the sun by the towers. The street lights glow red and green, twinkling, burning in the shade of the street.