Dish Sponge

“Hey, would you mind doing the dishes for me?” Mitch called from the living room. “I mean, I know you’re a guest and everything, but I just don’t have time to do them, cleaning up in here.”

The aftermath of the party was, of course, atrocious, and Bonnie was happy to help her friend out. “Sure!” she replied, and walked over to the sink.

The dishes were piled haphazardly, precarious stacks of food-crusted plates interspersed with a litany of glasses, mugs, and beer bottles. Bonnie stared at the mess of a counter for a moment, then looked at the table, also laden with work. She took a deep breath, then turned on the tap.

Bonnie reached forward and grabbed the sponge, only to have it squelch uncomfortably in her hand. The tinge of green was not natural or dyed, but came off in her hand.

Raising her lip in a sneer, she called out, “Hey Mitch?”

“Yeah,” the voice from the living said.

“Do you have another sponge?”

“Nope, just the one above the sink. Don’t worry, it’s still good, just give it a bit of soap!”

Bonnie gagged a little, but ran it through some water squishing it again and again in her fist. She poured a heavy dose of dish soap on it, squished again, and added more, then began washing.

The drying rack quickly filled up, forcing Bonnie to dry the dishes and put them away, leaving the sponge by the sink. Every time she returned to it, she was again filled with disgust.

It took nearly an hour, but she finally finished the dishes. She put the sponge back in its puddle of viscous goo, and made a mental note never to eat off of Mitch’s dishes again.


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