The Habit

The sink has been dripping for a month,

a rhythmic torture in the kitchen.

When the landlord said it wasn't his job,

I felt a heat rise up my neck.

I stood there with my hands on my hips,

and my left foot started to tap.

One, two, three—against the linoleum.

The sound I made was sharp and thin.

In the reflection of the greasy window,

I saw her eyes looking back at me.

I’m just standing in the kitchen.

Narrowed, cold, and ready for a fight.