He picked up one of the brushes that had been cleaned the day before and left to dry on the paint-stained blotter, which covered almost the entire desktop. He was mentally anticipating reaching for that first sip of morning thunder, but his hands were busy working free the bristles on the brush which had dried hard together, as though they were never intended to flex and become their individual selves. His hands were familiar with just the necessary effort and routine to break them free, transformed suddenly into soft and willing partners. With his right hand he now fanned the brush, back and forth, again and again, in a gentle see-saw motion against his pant leg. His left hand reached out and drew in that first suckle from his cup of the steaming, welcome, mother's milk.