Writing Practice

Her steps lightened as she approached her apartment.  It had been a long day at work, and she was glad to finally be home.  She walked through the door, her keys clanking into the metal cup on the table.  Her eyes caught on the counter in front of her and relief fled like a nervous dog.  Stacked dishes filled nearly every surface, more peeking up above the lip of the sink.  Sighing, she dropped her bag and turned away, only to be greeted by the growing pile of junk mail and unread magazines cluttering her kitchen table.  Her heart sank, the stress that had not yet fully left her returning in a rush.  For a moment all she could do was stand and stare.

Willfully she forced the thoughts of spreadsheets and dirty plates from her mind.  She ignored the mess, opened her fridge and grabbed a can of soda.  She might not be able to silence the rattle of to-do lists or ignore the unspoken demands of clutter, but she was fairly certain that mindless television and inane web quizzes could shout it down for a while.  Work would be there tomorrow, and the dishes could wait for the weekend.  Tonight she just needed to rest.

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