“Did I?”

She picks up the wet laundry, and brings them upstairs to dry as there is no more space left in the cramped quarters downstairs. A strong gust of wind blows and one of them falls to the ground. She picks it up and later hangs it outside the window, and makes a mental note to wash the stained blouse a second time.

Two days pass.

The same grey blouse is still hanging outside the window.

Someone alerts me to it. I look outside, and then approach the person responsible for my forgotten blouse.

“Where is my blouse?” I asked her.

She is confident enough to repeat multiple times that it is downstairs.

“How sure are you?” I asked her.

“I swear it is downstairs,” came her reply. Again and again, she insists it is downstairs. Again and again, she looks through the same tumble of clothing, but never ever chancing upon the grey blouse.

“No one will steal it,” she assures me as she flips over a black blouse. Hanging from her arms are shirts of assorted colours – white, yellow, black, purple, blue. I ask her if she knows what she is looking for. She says yes, black (figment of her imagination) and grey shirts. I remind her again and again that my blouse is a grey one. I ask her about ten times if she has any idea what she is searching for. Each time, she says yes, and then continues looking intently at the yellow shirt.

Half an hour has passed, and I am getting impatient. How long is it going to take the maid to realize that she placed my blouse hanging outside the window frames?

I ask her again where she placed it.

She replied confidently that it was downstairs, and ensured me that no one would steal it.

I asked her again how sure was she.

“I swear” was her reply.

“And if it isn’t?” I continue.

“Then I die,” said the maid.

I look at her for seconds, before words start tumbling out of my mouth on its own accord. “Well, then, prepare to die,” I said as I stood up and led her to the window frames, hidden by the billowing curtains, which the maid drew back to reveal my grey blouse.

There is a surprised look on her face, and a momentary stunned silence, before –

“Who put it there?!” She demanded.

Why, I don’t know, it could have been that the festive season of Christmas descended upon our household early and Santa Clause decided to have a little game of hide-and-seek? To enliven our stiffening atmosphere in here, perhaps?

“Why, it was you.” I replied, not at all amused.

Another ten seconds pass in which an incredulous look descended upon her face, and finally –

“Did I?”

I gave her my best annoyed look, while shock, surprise and disbelief all struggled for dominance on her face.

Her features screwed up into a tight ball and her eyebrows wrinkled in deep furrow as she struggled for her life to recall – and failed miserably.

Anyone looking for the lead actress to a possible sequel for the movie 50 First Dates?

I strongly recommend my maid.

Best part?

She doesn’t even have to act. I call it natural talent.