The woman bends over the table on which a pile of clothing awaits the iron. Gnarled fingers brush at strands of hair fallen across her face, as she would brush aside the tedium of her life.
Her calloused hands lift the delicate garments belonging to the mistress, impulse brings the silky fabric to her cheek and for a moment transports her from the dank room to a place of dreams.
The real world intrudes as the bell above the door, signals in its shrillness, that the call of her mistress must be heeded.
Thanks to the prompt and please visit Lillie McFerrin for more FSF.