The Cleaner (Professionals 9)

A cup of coffee was in her hand. Hot, this time, and in an oversize watercolor pig mug.

"Want a cup?" she asked by way of greeting as she pushed open the glass door, inviting me in, then turning to lock the glass outer door and the solid inner door while I looked around.

And, yeah, I learned more about Poppy alright.

She was a slob.

I mean, to be fair, nothing looked outright dirty. Just cluttered and unorganized. There was a pile—an actual pile, not a line or stack—of her platform shoes by the door next to a small mail table that was overflowing with old stacks of letters, paperwork, books, lipstick tubes, and earrings.

Looking past the scattered clothing, shoes, more books, endless coffee cups—both hot and cold—and an impressive stack of partially opened packages, Poppy seemed to favor reds and oranges.

The living room toward the back of the house featured a dominant penny brick fireplace that the burnt orange sectional couch faced. The board and batten that went more than halfway up the wall was painted a deep brick color as well. The wall above was left white. The color might have made the room seem small if it weren't for an abundance of soft light placed around. And during the day, there was a large glass sliding door and two windows to the sides, letting in enough light to allow the plants to thrive.

Plants, plural. And a lot of them. But, oddly, only one kind of plant.

"Yeah, I know," Poppy said, moving in at my side. "My mother has a crazy green thumb. She actually has a pretty popular plantstagram account. She never kills anything. Me, though. I kill everything. Except spider plants. I keep taking the babies off the mama plant, rooting, and planting them. So I have a lot of plants, just the only kind I can keep alive. I mean, I kill cacti and succulents, and those are supposed to be so easy. I need a plant that tells me when it needs water."

"Your plants talk to you?" I asked, looking over at her.

"Sort of. The spider plants start losing their bright green color when they are really thirsty. If they don't remind me to keep them alive, I won't."

"Is that why you don't have a pet?"

"I'm working on that," she told me, stepping over into the kitchen that had an overlook into the living room. "Coffee?" she asked again as I followed her in.

It was a small space with stainless steel appliances, marble countertops, and cherry cabinets. She had a small table pushed against a wall with two chairs. But the table itself was loaded down with grocery bags she had yet to unpack full of what seemed to be junk food. There were no pots or pans around. And the only items in the drying rack and sink seemed to be more mugs of the hot and iced variety.

"This is the least used room in the house, save for this baby," she declared, draping an arm across her restaurant-grade latte machine. "But I also have regular drip coffee. And a single serve machine with a ton of pods of every variety," she said, motioning to the other coffee machine which had both a stainless steel insulated full put and a spot for single serve cups to be made. "I'm serious about my coffee," she added, going over toward a drawer in the cabinet below the coffee machine, and opening it to reveal more coffee varieties than I thought She's Bean Around had. "The only thing is, we drink plant-based milk here," she said, going to the fridge, and pulling out two cartons—almond and oat.

The rest of the fridge seemed almost completely empty save for condiments, leftover Chinese, and a wilting heart of romaine lettuce.

"I don't need any milk," I told her, shrugging.

"Even better," she declared, putting the cartons away, closing the door, then making her way back to the drip coffee. "I could see you silently judging me on my empty fridge," she said as she rifled through her coffee pods, choosing one for me, then putting it into the machine. "I can't cook. I mean, maybe I can, but I am not interested in cooking. I do a lot of ordering in, or buying pre-made stuff. Do you cook?"

"Sometimes."

"Like the whole shebang, or you throw a piece of meat on the grill, and call it a meal?" she asked, glancing over at me as the smell of my coffee filled the room. Whatever she'd picked, it was strong. And I wasn't about to complain with how beat I was.

"Both, either. Depends."

"So, Finn, what do you do for a living?" she asked, handing me my coffee in a mug that proclaimed True Crime & Chill.

"I'm a consultant at a crisis management firm."

"Crisis management firm. That's some rich people shit, isn't it?" she asked, smirking.