Drips

Hey babe, I like playing armchair shrink, but these new revelations are killing me, coming a little too late for my comfort. You stagger the truth in small, unpredictable increments, like the haunting sound of slow, erratic drips from our leaky faucet. A kind of water torture for me, but with drips of truth, not water; each drip reverberating more ominously, more painfully than the last; always catching me off guard despite the anticipation, and piling up, one on top of the other – an acid wash of drips corroding away your sweet sugarcoating.

Drip    Drip      Drip Drip    Drip           Drip

Now tell me: Who is this guy? How did you meet him? When did this happen?

Drip       Drip     Drip

Thanks for your honesty, babe, but something is missing, more drips maybe? You love me, right? Of course you do! But as always, I’m waiting for more drips of truth from you…scared but waiting. I need to know more, need to know the real you, both the good and the bad. After 11 years, I’m entitled, right?

So, tell me more. How far did it go with him?

Come on…drip drip drip…speed it up will ya? The wait is killing me, torture! Waiting for that one drip in a thousand that will hurt me bad, revealing all – the whole story. I know it is there, somewhere, in all those drips – the mother of all drips, a brutal messenger with a shank!

Give it to me babe!

You tell me it is better not knowing everything, to not ask so many questions, to just chill and not probe your private space so much, letting you just be and take care of things as you see fit. Well, maybe you are right, but…

This not knowing, the ambiguity of it, is like a game of Russian roulette with drips – worse than bullets. I hear that fucking faucet leaking all night, hear it in my head too, drip drip drip drip, wondering what you’ve not yet told me…waiting for that next drip – the one I’ve been dreading – the coup de grâce.

© 2020 David M. Rubin. All rights reserved.