Workers In My Kitchen I

Workers In My Kitchen I MY husband, Robert, had left me behind when he flew off to Singapore for another one of his ‘business opportunities.’ He’d been gone three days, and the machinery in the kitchen, meant to make my life easier, had chosen this exact moment to stage a minor rebellion. The fridge’s cooling unit had started groaning like a dying beast, and the dishwasher, well, it just stopped. I had called the service number Robert left, a nameless and faceless company that promised 'swift and discreet repairs.' Now, three men stood in my clean kitchen, their work boots tracking faint smudges across the polished travertine tiles. They were younger than I expected, all muscle and confident grins, not the grizzled, weary types I usually pictured for appliance repair. "Morning, ma'am,"