Friday
April 1, 2016
Draft Three
Every Friday, my hands become wet and warm. Then they chill. In a few minutes, they are greeted by a half-gallon pail and another splash of warm water. As I draw them out again, I hear what may be music as the water returns to the pail, dripping melodically from the pine-green rag.
After washing a few more computer stations, I soak the rag a third time. Then I can smell it on my hands, in the rag. The whole library is fragrant with the sweet aroma of vinegar. Despite its bitter-sour taste, this simple, clear liquid smells comforting. Inviting.
A woman walks past the desk I am cleaning. I look up. Smile. She works in the test center, adjoined to the library where I work, so I know her well. When she sees my rag, she sniffs the air dramatically and chuckles.
“Smells like Friday.”
Show Drafts
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Draft Two
green rag
warm-sweet vinegar
smells like friday
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Draft One
Every Friday, my hands are wet, then warmed. Immediately, they chill. Ten minutes later, a splash of warm water greets my hands again, and when I draw them out, I hear water music as the liquid molecules return to the aquamarine half-gallon pail, dripping melodically from the pine-green rag.
When I soak the rag a third time after washing a few more computer stations, I start to smell it. On my hands, in the rag. The whole library is filled with the warm-sweet aroma of vinegar. Uncomfortable to taste, this simple, clear liquid ironically smells comforting, inviting.
A woman walks past the desk I am cleaning. I look up. Smile. She works in the test center, adjoined to the library where I work, so I know her well. When she sees my rag, she sniffs the air dramatically.
“Smells like Friday.”