My fountain pen leaked. I was in the office and the few tissues in my desk drawer were worthless against the black ink that stained my fingers.
Attempts at the bathroom sink were futile. It would have to wait until I got home.
I washed at home later in the day, using the Boraxo, nail brush and pumice stone that were there for special occasions.
As I washed, I remembered watching my father and the printers who worked at the printing shop scrub their hands at the end of the day. I thought of workers who really get their hands dirty earning a living.
And I thought about the fact that a leaking fountain pen is the closest I’ll get.