Don't believe everything you read, 2.

UPDATE: after a lot of fiddling, and some feedback:

At the sink, with La Traviata on the radio

It would be annoying at first, this commandeering. It meant tuts
and elbow dodging for a glass of water; that filling the kettle
was unfeasible for hours. Even she went without for the time it took.
This was an uncommon ritual, a cleansing of pens neglected
from long hours of drawing even the most basic of figures sitting, perhaps,
or bending. It took as long as the notes of opera and was put off each time
for longer, but tempting her back to the page only took a suggestion
of waterproof ink, a well-placed question about the pens or the terracotta
pot they stood in, as still and silent as art. She'd used them before, of course;
the ink was always suspended mid-thought and dried in the trappings of nib
and well. This too would succumb to the gentle swooshing in hand-warm water
where she'd bathed me once too, small as I was then. The sink would deepen
to lichen green or summer blue. Only the red would stain her wrinkling palms
as the stubborn brown gave way to those gentle hands rocking
back and forth in a humming of arias.

-------


At the sink, with La Traviata on the radio

It would be annoying at first,
this commandeering. It meant
tuts and elbow dodging for a glass
of water; that filling the kettle
was an unfeasibility for hours.

Even she went without for the time
it took, this ritual cleansing of pens,
neglected from long hours of drawing
even the most basic of figures just
sitting, perhaps, or bending. Tempting

her back to art only took a subtle buying
of waterproof ink, a question about
the pens or the pot they stood in.
She'd used them before, of course,
the ink was always suspended

mid-thought and dried in the trappings of nib
and well; but even this would succumb
to the gentle swooshing in hand-warm
water where she'd bathed me, once,
small as I was then. The sink would turn

a deepening shade of lichen green or summer
blue. Only the red would stain her palms
from the last of the pens as the stubborn
brown gave way to those gentle hands rocking
back and forth in a humming of arias.