The Damp Sponge

I climbed from the drying rack onto the edge of the kitchen counter. Beside the metal faucet lay a thick yellow cellulose sponge, still holding moisture from the morning. I planted both boots directly onto its porous surface. The foam gave way with a soft, breathy hiss, sinking two centimeters under my weight. My soles stopped just above the cool porcelain. I held my balance, waiting for the material to give up. Instead, when I leaned backward onto my heels, the compressed pockets pushed back, slowly lifting my feet until the block regained its clean rectangular shape. It left no dent. I pressed one palm into the center just to feel the quiet rebound again.