He shuffled in the bed. A calculated shuffle; just wiggly enough and just noisy enough to wake his sleeping partner.
“Are you awake?” he whispered.
“No,” came the muffled reply, deep beneath the winter-thick duvet.
“The tap is doing it again,” he said quietly.
“The what is doing what? Shut up. Go to sleep.”
“The dripping thing. The tap. The…” he paused, grasping in the night for the foreign word native to this land.
“…faucet!” he exclaimed.
It was dark. There was no way he could see it, but boy could he feel “the look”.
Friday Fictioneers is hosted by the freshly published Rochelle. Join in the 100 word flash fiction fun or simply go read the other entries here.
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