The house was spotless. It always was. He touched his forehead with the back of his hand and stared at what he considered a masterpiece of a cleaning frenzy. Walking to the sparkling clean Frigidaire he counted off all the things he would need next time.
Windex.
New mop head.
paper towels.
Detergent.
They called him Mister Clean and he took great pride in it. All of his other guy friends were pitiful. There bathrooms so cluttered with clothes and damp towels you could drown in there. Mister Clean smiled at his reflection in the countertop He resisted the the urge to run his finger on it to hear it squeak. He wouldn't want to leave a smudge.

He walked across the thick white carpet to the couch. Looking back he could see his footprints molded in the area he had just walked on. That was unacceptable. He knew he was acting like a over obsessed clean freak but he couldn't have it left like that. He abandoned the idea of re-vacuuming the floor to make it even more puffy and just grabbed the carpet rake and followed him footprints back to the couch.
Sitting there for what seemed hours when in all truth it was only a minute or so he thought about how lucky the woman he would finally marry would be. She wouldn't have to worry about a clean home, doing laundry or ever mopping a floor.
He would do all that.
He would treat her like a princess.
If only he had the courage to go outside his apartment without gloves and a face mask. He knew the women would just love him.