The word sang as it careened around his mind’s corners, rattling towards a pleasant hum. The hesitation that had gripped him anew every evening for a month already seemed distant, the failings of a lethargic fool. Thirty nights of plunging into grime, lingering horrors that refused to fully depart, and for what? He’d argued with himself last week; the jury’s verdict was that he Ought To Get Around To It Soon.
Seven days, stained and sordid, added to his sentence within seconds. What had he been thinking?
But now the thrill of borrowed confidence danced under his fingers, tiny twinges of satisfaction bolstered with a deep blue blur. His mistakes dissolved, swipe by swipe, and the sticky muck grew fearful and pale as its structure snapped apart, washed away by a Redemption sculpted to fit his hand.
A flannel-clad arm slid gently into the crook of his own. “You finally bought a new sponge, hmmm?”, his wife murmured, her approval shining like polished copper. “Thank GOD. I’ve been fantasizing about that since last Thursday.” She paused. “Not quite how I imagined my thirties.”
“Is that so bad?”
Her grin bounded in front of her words, answering for her. She’d spotted a new, pristine roll of parchment paper on the counter, waiting for transport to the cabinet. Her preferred brand. “I think,” she said with an exaggerated comic sigh, “that somehow, I’ll find the strength to endure.”