He taps his squeegee against the bucket again and brings it across the top of the pane, staggered dribbles of water running down to where he could get the satisfaction of swiping them away, only to create a new set of drips. Its a game that speeds the job. A whole front of tall glass that needs to be washed every single week. There’s a shudder through the whole rig from the incessant wind coming off the bay, drying the suds on the windows before he has a chance to wipe them off. He sees a resilient spot, pulls out his cloth and pushes at it with his fingers until it disappears.
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