Heptadecagon

Scrub, scrub, scrub. My fingers press against the lemon-scented disinfecting wipe in an attempt to take away the gunk at the bottom of the bathroom sink. I know that the wipe is better for taking away germs and not the detritus of the fairies who live inside my house. But the wipe is handy and available-- like a one-night stand-- and so I press my fingers again, with more force this time, and push the quilted white paper around the plug at the bottom of the sink. It picks up small bits and pieces of whatever lays there, but never the entire smudge. I stop my hand from moving and peer into the sink. My nose is close to the faucet and I hear the single plink of a leftover drop of water as it falls. I lean in closer, thinking (always thinking)-- I've performed this action now for several days. The same one, over and over, and over again. The grime leaves for a moment, but with constant use, it's back again, as if nothing will change its mind. But maybe it...