I take the two-cup measuring container, now full of water, and set it in the microwave.
Green, plastic measuring spoon in hand (the lone survivor from a once intact set of five), I reach into my bin of decaf coffee and retrieve a heaping mound, which I transfer to my IKEA French press. Taking my favorite mug from the cupboard, I cover the bottom with a half inch of creamer--Peppermint Mocha, the first container of the season.
I go back into the bedroom to find my slippers, then return to the kitchen and lean against the counter while I watch the diminishing seconds on the microwave timer. I'm convinced it boils my water faster if I stand guard.
I turn to stare at the faucet. Stop dripping, I think with irritation.
I grab the handle, twist it upwards, to the left, then slowly back down, stopping just shy of where I believe the bottom to be. Sometimes that works.
Drip ... dripdripdrip ... drip
It didn't work.
I maneuver to the right this time, hoping that something shifted inside the faucet guts (a place I can envision but have no real proof of). Maybe there's a little life left on that right side of the washer.
I'm annoyed. I press my lips in a firm line and wiggle the faucet this way, that way, slightly to the left, northeast, way down south, and every destination in between.
And still it drips.
For crying out loud! my thoughts bellow. How much of my life have I wasted standing at this stupid sink fighting with this dripping faucet?
And then I hear God's whisper. All over the world today, women will walk miles to get their water from distant wells.
The microwave dings. My water is ready.