Unspeakable
I will tell the tale.
A few weeks ago, C brought out a pile of screwdrivers. "Something leaked all over them," she said. She cleaned the screwdrivers and put them in a wire basket.
On Sunday, I went looking for a screwdriver.
The purple one, the one in the photograph, was the perfect size. I picked it up and recoiled because it was covered in some kind of oily liquid, and there were purple tears of something along its spines.
I checked the other screwdrivers. They were clean and dry.
Odd, I thought. I washed the purple screwdriver--thoroughly--and used it without incident. Afterwards, it went into the wire basket.
Today, I needed it again. I pulled it out of the wire basket and IT WAS FULL OF PURPLE TEARS again.
The other screwdrivers, once again, were clean and dry. I could draw only one conclusion: the purple screwdriver is weeping.
What unspeakable hell is this screwdriver enduring? Will it ever be free? Or will it weep unto eternity?
I for one, am not encouraged.
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