When it gets a little slow at the restaurant I work at (and from this point onward will be refered to as ‘my restaurant’), I will tidy, straighten, and dust.  Not activities I am inclined to do at home because there are so many other, better things to do.  One thing I would next to never do (you don’t say never because you don’t want to get caught up in a lie…) is clean the windows.  As long as I can see through them and sunlight still filters in everything is good.  It is amazing the layers of dog nose prints I can not acknowledge. (Every once in a while the window cleaning fairy comes and magic happens).  Behind the bar is the hover point, the place that one will stand when waiting for something to be made, giving people space to decide what to order, a place to stop so you don’t end up standing in the middle of the restaurant looking lost.  Anyway, it faces the main entrance. The door is glass.  It has handles on both sides.  One indictates from its position that it is a pull, the other a push.  Nevertheless, people, grown adult type people, push on the glass making handprints, fingerprints, and smears which the sunlight dances through, highlighting their presence and smeariness.  If I could go take pictures of my garden, or go for a walk with my kids, maybe turn around and make something decadent and delicious, like I would at home, those finger marks would cease to exsist, but no. Their view hindering presence nags at me until I bend to the pressure, get out the window cleaner and eradicate them.  I mentioned to my husband in a ‘just checking in’ kind of email, about the finger prints and how I curse the glass touchers.  My husband thinks I am being funny.