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Cracked Pepper Stains

photo credit: Rev. Jeff 'Blank' Dory

Washing cracked pepper out of the sink again, scrubbing down Indian yellow stains from probably too much Turmeric, something else green unknown in there. The drain doesn’t exactly drain backwards, but seems to send the water the wrong direction, which Reeves finds somewhat impossible, until he notices that the sink has been installed crooked, drain at high end, and the pool of impossible water continues to grow in the low end like a cancerous mirror, and You Are What You Eat if you eat what you wash down, and if you look in the sink at what you didn’t eat, you can see yourself at your worst...

“That’s an outlier, but also an implier,” Reeves reasons to himself at the crack of dawn, washing down his sink with a stiff-bristled brush, the splatters multiply on his pasty yellow walls, as the tile backsplash is clearly not tall enough to contain the splashback created from simple, nonviolent scrubbing.

“Built with one purpose, and failing...”

Reeves drops his arms as if he has given up completely now, frustration dug in like tiny begrudging soldiers, conscientious objectors, like children faced with possibly/not terrifying new experiences, like first times on a sailboat. Wind does not make sense to children; sailing does not make sense to anyone...

“You say the Wind cannot pull anything…? Then you are gravely mistaken...” Reeves, aloud….

Wind does not affect the pool of water in the low end of Reeves’ sink. His notion to force the water into the drain is met by the force of the immovable consistency of water. He takes two steps backwards as he approaches the sink. He shrinks back with an assertiveness only afforded to those in complete shock, moving away purely by instinctual muscular reactions, beat of war drums pulsing just slightly quicker than his heartbeat, Reeves throws his hands up again as if to say: “Fuck!”

“How will this water ever drain?”

If there was time to call a plumber, Reeves didn’t have it. Too busy trying to make his mind quicker than sand in a tornado, with no soil left unturned, no stone gathering no moss, while still there was no way out for this poor, soupy water full of pepper and probably too much turmeric to escape.

Reeves turns and looks lovingly at all his nearby possessions, cowering now in the corner of his kitchen, slowly mouthing the words “Good-bye” and envisioning something like a molten Niagara falls as his sink overfills with a deluge of lava, melting everything in its path, crashing onto the cheap linoleum floor and splattering plastic and pepper flakes all over pasty walls above the backsplash, as it is helpless to do anything about it, being only one tile high and all, and Reeves slowly realizing that sailing is really nothing more than a result of a healthy relationship with the Wind...

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