The air in the apartment crackled with tension as Kevin’s voice rose, sharp words slicing through the fragile truce they’d maintained for weeks. Ellen stood frozen by the kitchen counter, her fingers whitening around her phone. “You don’t even try to understand me anymore,” she’d said, moments before he’d snapped---a retort about her “needing to grow up” that hung between them like poison. She didn’t cry. She just turned away, her silence louder than any shout.

He woke the next morning to the hum of a vacuum cleaner. Except it wasn’t a dream. The weight of lace and polyester clung to his body, pink fabric stretched taut over his chest, white apron strings digging into his waist. Textured white tights encasing his shaven legs. Panic clawed up his throat, but when he tried to rip the uniform off, his hands moved instead to smooth invisible wrinkles from the skirt.

His mind throbbed with compulsive knowledge: the exact ratio of vinegar to water for streak-free mirrors, the internal temperature of a perfectly seared scallop, the best way to fold fitted sheets. He tried to scream, but his voice emerged as a cheery, “Good morning, Miss Ellen! Would you like fresh coffee?”

The bathroom door creaked open on its own. Kevin’s legs carried him inside, sponge already in hand. “Start with the grout lines,” his new instincts whispered. He scrubbed until his knees ached, mentally reciting the antibacterial properties of tea tree oil. When Ellen appeared in the doorway, his head bowed. “The shower’s ready for inspection, Miss Ellen.” Her nod was curt, unreadable.

The porcelain gleamed under his obsessive polishing. He’d reorganized the medicine cabinet by height, bleached the shower curtain’s mold spots invisible, and wiped down the baseboards with a toothbrush. Every muscle screamed, but the magic didn’t let him stop---not until the bathroom smelled like a sterile hotel spa.

Next, the family room. His hands plugged in the vacuum, methodically working in diagonal lines across the carpet. A forgotten coffee mug on the side table? Washed, dried, placed precisely 2 inches from the coaster. A throw blanket? Folded into a perfect square, edges aligned. When he dusted the bookshelf, he alphabetized the novels by author’s last name without consciously deciding to.

“My mom’s coming over for dinner,” Ellen announced, not looking up from her laptop. “Make something nice. She’ll be here at seven.” The command settled in Kevin’s mind like a subroutine. "Yes, Miss Ellen." His feet pivoted toward the kitchen, already inventorying the pantry: salmon fillets, arborio rice, a half-empty bottle of pinot noir.

He julienned carrots with military precision, reduced the sauce to a glossy consistency, and plated the salmon atop saffron risotto with a garnish of microgreens he somehow knew Ellen’s mother adored. The apron stayed spotless. His mind noted approvingly that the hem of the tablecloth hung exactly one inch above the floor.