The lotion, creamy and smelling of flowers, stung like acid as it got into the splits and cracks. Her skin rasped as she rubbed it in. Washerwoman's hands. Dry, red, chapped.
The greasy sensation was more than she could stand. Her best intentions fell by the wayside as she rushed to the sink.
Lathered. Rinsed.
Still felt the slick nastiness.
Picked up the rough sponge and scoured her hands, scoured them, until the sting of the lotion was replaced by twin gloves of abrasive fire.
Rinsed again.
She raised her hands before her eyes and studied them as carefully as a scientist observing bacteria under a microscope.
Clean. They couldn't be cleaner unless she dunked them in boiling water.
She washed them once more just to be sure. Dried them with a sheaf of paper towels torn from the roll that stood on the counter. Pinched the damp wad between thumb and forefinger, and carried it to the trash can as gingerly as if it were a flask of unstable nitroglycerine.
The kitchen was spotless. Her gaze scanned the glass-fronted cupboards, ticking over the contents. She paused, frowned. Opened a door, and minutely adjusted the position of one of the glasses until it was perfectly aligned with its fellows. The taller drinking vessels were at the back, the short squatty ones at the front, all arranged by shape and color into tidy rows.
There. Just so. Just the way she liked it.
A place for everything, as her mother had always said. And everything in its place. Cleanliness next to godliness. Dirty hands, dirty mouth, dirty mind.
The thought made her glance at her hands again. Dry. Parched, even. But clean.