In my Writing 31 class, in our book, it provides a writing exercise of writing a short scene in which one person washes a car. The prompt called us not to relate any of the character's thoughts. We were to write, "just the facts." I tried to do this, although describing the process of washing a car was definitely a more challenging (and uninteresting) piece to write.

There was no other way to describe that afternoon as hot and sweltering. The kind of midday sun that could draw out beads of sweat, the big droplets falling to the ground before you could even bring the back of your hand to your forehead to swipe them away.

John instinctively wiped his hand on his forehead. It was moist. He then ruffled his hand through his hair. Sticky. He sighed, his eyes squinting. He picked up a red bucket, the cheap plastic reflecting the sun in all of its intensity.

A 2003 four-door Saab sat in the driveway. It was, as his father had put it while clapping him on the back and swiftly dropping a set of keys into John’s hands, well-loved. The silver paint was slightly chipping in some places, the right headlight had been replaced over six times. There was a slight, just-barely noticeable dent on the rear of the car from that time John had taken the term “joy-ride” a little too literally, causing him to break hard. There was the unmistakable screeching of the black tires against the worn pavement, his body tensing, and then suddenly the jolt that came from the back, knocking him forward into the wheel. And then the blow of the white airbag upon his face. His father simply thought that John hadn’t noticed that the light had turned red; in actuality it was because John wanted to show off his car’s acceleration to his passengers, and did not realize that the light had turned red many, many cars ahead.

John grabbed the green hose nearby, its snakelike form fighting as John brought the nozzle down into the bucket. He reached for the knob, turning it with dexterity. The nozzle gushed with a spurt, and the bucket began to fill with water, warmed from the day’s heatwave. He added some soap, and soon a layer of small bubbles crowned the top of the bucket. John carried the bucket with ease, placing it down near his car.

And then began the work. He sloshed the crumbling, once-yellow sponge into the sudsy water, bubbles sloshing out and running down the sides of the bucket’s slick exterior. He slapped the sponge upon the hood of the Saab, recoiling with a hiss as his hand made contact with the heated metal. Again and again he dunked the sponge, bringing it back to the car, scrubbing vigorously, the exhalations of his breaths began to quicken. He washed the windows, the doors, even the roof, causing him to once lose his footing, his chin hitting metal with a small thud. He cursed silently, rubbing his chin, and brushed a damp hand through his hair. He could not tell if his hair was wet because of the water or his own sweat. The sun beat down on him, a blistering heat that burned through his grey t-shirt, until he felt it between his very shoulder blades. He moved toward the windshield, still washing with the same vigor, despite the heat, the glare of the silver metal, the saltiness of his sweat streaming down his face, finding its way into his mouth. He continued.

When what remained of the bucket had evaporated, John tossed the sponge inside. The car was being dried quickly from the unrelenting sun. The dead, dried bugs on the windshield were gone, the thick layer of dust on the back was wiped away. The car had been given more attention that afternoon than it had in the past few months.

John stepped back and collapsed on the grass, taking cover beneath the shade of his house. The grass blades, with their dried brown withered tips, bristled beneath him. He breathed heavily, finally resting for a brief moment.

He slightly shifted, feeling something in his jean pocket. He pulled it out. It was a crumpled piece of paper. Unfolding it, his eyes scanned over the words that he had known for weeks now. “Homecoming 2017.”