Mr. Clean, standing behind you

Looking at the exposed back of your neck

He moves a single hand towards the surface of your nape

But his fingertips pause but a hairs breadth from touch

You feel an electrical tingle
And you want to turn around but you can’t seem to bring yourself to do it

Mr Clean licks his dry lips

Backs away towards the door

And like a slouching beast, disappears into the ether

That very same night

Mr. Clean returns

He walks into your bathroom while you sleep

He stares intently at his own reflection

The gentle heaving of his breath

The contours and curves ‘neath his pristine white shirt

He reaches behind him and transmutes a magic eraser

He begins scrubbing the skin of his arms

He scrubs with fierceness, fervor. He only wants to be clean. He only wants to be pure

After minutes of scrubbing in a trancelike state, he realizes he has scrubbed off his skin

Straight past layers of glistening subcutaneous fat

His muscles are exposed. But there is no pain

His head rotates 180 degrees

To look at you, lying in bed

He climbs in with you

Straddles your helpless form

Echoing through your shallow consciousness you hear the jingle

“Mr. Clean Mr. Clean Mr. Clean”

Your eyes open

His hands close