For a glorious second, the water level dropped. Leo grinned. “See? Basic physics.”
You stood over it, arms crossed, asking the empty room: Can I plunge a sink?
To plunge is to declare war on your own mess. It is to admit that the passive waiting—the hoping that gravity would do the work, that the water would simply decide to leave—is over. It is an act of aggression in a room usually reserved for nurture and feeding.
Can I plunge a sink?