Water Torture

I turned the handle until my knuckles turned white.

It’s three in the morning.

The silence in this apartment is a physical thing,

but the faucet doesn't care.

Plink.

It hits the water in the soaking bowl,

making a tiny, perfect ring that travels outward

until it hits the side of a dirty spoon.

I'm waiting for the next one.

I'm terrified of the next one.