Drip, drip, drip.
Sebastian watched the tap drip, the way the precious water trickled away lost. He thought it was like a metaphor for something big, something larger than himself. He listened to the gentle yet relentless rhythm of the droplets falling, gazing at them plunge like suicides on to the plate of dried pasta sauce.
Maybe it’s like love, he thought, putting on some Marigolds, maybe love is like a dripping tap.
He squirted some Fairy around the sink but didn’t turn on the tap just yet, not wanting to spoil the moment. This momentary momentous moment.
Drip, drip, drip.
He stood there in silent vigil, drinking in the instant, sensing it to his core. The floor chilled his feet through the holes in his socks. He would remember this night, the way it terrified and elated him.
Love is like a dripping tap, Sebastian meditated, although I’m not sure in what possible way.
He picked up a bowl dirty with dry Corn Flakes and started to scrub.
You sound like you've found a bird, but she doesn't do oral.
ReplyDeleteI thought this one might get a comment from you, Biroco, and no.
ReplyDeleteNo she doesn't or no you haven't?
ReplyDeleteThe second one, damn you.
ReplyDelete