Leaky Faucet

Drip.
Drip.
Drip.

You look up at the dripping faucet, glaring as though to scare the leak away. Of course it stays, and I watch you just as you watch the
water; obsessed and infuriated. The damn leak is mesmerizing you, holding your attention enough to keep you awake, keep you
interested. My eyes are locked on you in the same way, completely absorbed in you. But I hate you so much?because I can?t have
you. Just like you can?t have the water, make it stop its annoying, monotonous ways, make it change, bend to your will, your want,
your desire. I can tell that you want it to do as you wish so badly by the angry set of your jaw, the concentrated look in your diseased,
beautiful eyes. If only you knew that I want you just as badly.

Frustratingly, you raise your hand. No! I can?t have the teacher look at you, give you permission to fix your persistent,
attention-holding woe. I glare in her direction, not wanting the only thing keeping you from looking at me while looking at you to
disappear.

You?re standing up; the teacher heard your silent plea, told you to make it stop. Oh, such utter satisfaction for you, to get up and turn
the damned knobs of the one sink in the classroom I was becoming fond of, making the consistent drip of the water stop, fade away,
become nothing else but another leak-deprived sink. I can?t help but watch you as you walk back to your seat, nothing to show for
your satisfaction but a wry smirk that barely has time to grace your brooding face before becoming the stoic mouth that I?ve come so
fond of.

I stare angrily at my desk as you sit at yours, thoroughly put out. Why can?t you be just as easy to manipulate? Where are your little
knobs, one for hot, one for cold? How I?d love to be able to turn you on?but no one has given me permission to do so. I fist my
hands in my lap and glare at you, not giving a rat?s ass if you can see me or not. You need to know how much I hate you.

?for making me fall in love.