He splashed the cool water against his face while leaning over the basin of the stainless steel sink. Its scuffed surface allowed only a dim shadow of a reflection; he stared at the dark shape he assumed was his head listening to the gurgling faucet. Something in him was loath to turn the spicket off. There was comfort just in the simple sound of running water.
He sighed.
Noticing, here, that his hands were clutching the brim of the sink, white knuckling it, in fact, he forced his tired fingers to open and stood.
The last few drops of the spicket echoed as he returned, haunting him as he dried his face. Throwing the towel aside, he stared at the door, longing for the day to end and be over, for the weary fight to be done, for the comfort of home.
Sighing, he pushed through.
Tale Told 