I have a character named Cynthia that I sometimes conjure up when I’m trying to write fiction. Here’s a little scene that has never gone anywhere. I think it has some promise though.
Cynthia sat at the kitchen table waiting. She wasn’t waiting for the toast to pop up. That happened five minutes ago, and she had smeared enough butter on the multi-grain bread to negate any positive health effects that the bread was supposed to provide.
The kitchen table was bright white except for an unsightly pink stain that would never go away. When you don’t clean up your mess quickly enough, you can never quite get rid of it. Cynthia learned to tolerate all kinds of messes. She’d devised strategies for dealing with problems long after they’d spun out of control. A red wine spill on a white table, a dented car door, a misunderstanding with a friend; Cynthia ignored all of these and ended up with a permanently stained table, a car door so rusted that it had to be replaced, and a friendship dissolved.