A grating squeak, like rusted gears struggling to move, sounds as I turn the tap handle. The low, squealing, bubbling of the water as it escapes the pipes mixes with the gurgling of it flowing into the kettle. The kettle clacks into place in its holder and I flick the switch on with a snap. The kettle quickly erupts into loud churning noises that persists for a few minutes, til calming to a soft gurgle. A click sounds notifying me that the water has boiled. The water flows into the cup with a rising ripple. The spoon scrape and clicks around the cup and with a final ding the tea is done.
The slippery soap film is lathered onto my face. The frigid water washes over my face making the soap foamy, contrasting sharply with the cactus like bristles. The rubber grip of the razor feels like dough molded around a metal rod. As I draw the razor across my cheek it tugs at the hairs like little men pulling out weeds. A slip of the hand makes a minute cut that stings more than it should, reminding me of a paper cut. I finish and the arctic water crashes against my face, as I rub the remaining soap off my face. No longer does it feel like a cactus, but now frictionless and raw, exposed to the elements once more.
Finger tips brush across the surface of the table. The surface which seemed smooth to the eye, is bumpy. The void space between the thumb and fingers tells me that the pen is not within my grasp. As they close the touch of a luke warm cylinder informs my brain that I have the plastic tool at hand. The shaft feels greasy from the times it has been used before. The distribution of weight towards one end tells me which way it needs to be orientated. Adjusting my grip, quickly my thumb and forefinger work their way down the towards the ribbed and tapered end, poised for work.
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