The Dripping Faucet

by Lenny Trask

Every night, the faucet in his cramped kitchen let out a rhythmic drip, soft and steady, like the ticking of some forgotten celestial clock. At first, it was annoying—he nearly called the super twice—but something in the water’s cadence began to lull him into dreams so vivid they left perfume on his pillow. He met long-lost loves there, spoke with extinct animals, even danced barefoot with ancient stars. The dreams stitched his soul back together in a way his waking life never could. Friends urged him to get the leak looked at, offering plumbers and stern logic, but he’d just smile and change the subject. Instead, he wrapped the pipes in blankets each winter like a caretaker guarding a sacred relic, praying the magic wouldn’t run dry.

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Lenny Trask lives above a laundromat in Queens.