Sisyphus of the Bottles
I know they're sitting up there. I can feel it.
How do I know they are?
Because they are. Every night of every week. Sitting there.
Waiting for me.
I'm like Sisyphus, Sisyphus of the Bottles.
You see, what happens is there's a baby, during the day. Or maybe there isn't. It's all a blur, so the baby's actual existence is only posited because of the existence of the bottles at the end of the day.
Each evening I'll round the corner of the kitchen, peer over the top of the drying dishes, and there they'll be: bottles, bottle tops, nipples, some other thing that apparently goes inside the bottle, some other, less long thing that also goes inside the bottle, and small flat caps for the bottles. All of which are lightly covered in a milky substance that may, in fact, be milk. And the sink, other than the bottle and accouterment, is empty.
So I run the tap, splash in dish soap. Fill the sink up with soapy water. Once that's done I'll scour away, rubbing, sponging, bottle-brushing with both a large and tiny bottle-brush. Rinse the bottles in the other sink and set the rinsed bottles to the side. Boil a kettle to sterilize the bottles and accompanying gear. Splash a little boiled water on the gear, some on my hands. Every time this happens. I bought rubber gloves once, but, when I went to splash the boiled water on the rinsed articles I found I couldn't remember where I'd put them.
I'll assemble the various bits of the bottles so they can be used quickly the next day, or, in an emergency, in the middle of the night. Then, because I've touched them, I'll re-boil the kettle, with new water, and splash them again, sterilizing them yet again. This time it's 50-50 odds that I'll burn my hands. Some nights I will, some I won't. By the way, the 50-50 isn't an exact, calculated number. It's just a guess. An educated one, but a guess, nonetheless.
With that second boiled kettle I'll fill the bottles, cap 'em, and leave them for the next day (or, again, in the middle of the night).
And that's it. I'm done. Until, that is, the next day, when I take a quick peek at the sink in the evening and there they are again, the dirty bottles.
All Sisyphus had to do was roll a rock up a hill.
It's not Hell, it's like Hell's innocuous neighbor, Bill. I'm in Bill. And I'm Sisyphus of the Bottles.
disclaimer:
This was not about a CIA agent. Sorry. Maybe next week. Or maybe it was. Like, if he or she was on his or her time off and had to sort out bottles. I don't know. I wouldn't buy that one if I were you, though.
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