Iz grabbed a moist wash cloth out of the shower and used it to wipe down the sink and the toilet like a guy cleaning your windshield at a red light even though you don't want it cleaned and expecting you to pay him. Then he rinsed it in the toilet water and hung it back in the shower like a Mapplethorpe. No time to clean the tub, so he closed the shower curtain, gambling that Tricia wouldn’t look behind it. No toilet bowl cleaner, but there was a full bottle of mint-flavored Scope. He took a mouthful, gargled, and spit it in the sink like a wino puking in the puke-filled back alley behind an opera house. Then he poured the rest of the bottle into the toilet like a horse urinating green urine into a toilet, swished it around with his hand, and flushed. A quick check to make sure there was enough toilet paper. Then he rinsed his hands, dried them, replaced the hand towel with a clean one, tossed the dirty one out the window like a panicked guy tossing out his mistress's bra that she left behind an hour ago, and now his wife just got home, and he was done. Less than two minutes. He felt like he was on a NASCAR pit crew.