Ablutions for the Diva

Returning from the avenue, I could not tolerate the disgraceful white film clinging to my black gloves after the afternoon's sugar architecture. Scaling the cold porcelain flank of the washbasin, I found a single glistening drop of water trembling at the tip of the curved brass faucet. I stepped beneath the arch, reached up to catch the droplet, and swept it across my palms with vigorous, measured friction. Every stubborn speck of crystalline grit dissolved under my assault. Snatching the crisp waffle-weave hem of an ivory hand towel nearby, I burnished each finger until the jet-black surface gleamed under the warm vanity sconce. Immaculate once more.