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Close your eyes and let the soft, rhythmic sounds pull you in. I slip on my bright yellow rubber gloves—****, ****—the tight latex stretching over my fingers with a crisp, satisfying pop. Warm water rushes from the faucet, a gentle hiss filling the quiet kitchen as steam curls upward. I plunge my gloved hands into the sudsy sink, bubbles foaming thick and white. Scrub… squeak… splash. The sponge glides over a ceramic plate, rubber squeaking softly against the smooth surface in slow, deliberate circles. Water trickles, droplets pattering back into the basin like tiny rain. I whisper just for you: “Shhh… listen to the gloves… feel how slick and shiny they get…” Each dish clinks gently as I stack it—clink, clink—the latex flexing, stretching, glistening under the light. A fork tings against glass, a spoon swirls in soapy water with a low, wet whoosh. My voice, barely above a breath: “Every bubble… every squeak… just for you.”