The drip-drip-drip of the kitchen faucet had a rhythm like a metronome set to annoyance. I’d tried everything: tightening the handle, whispering apologies, even placing a half-empty bottle of lemon oil beneath the sink like a sacrificial offering. Nothing worked. By noon, the sound was louder than my ex’s voicemails.
“You got a problem?” asked Mrs. Peabody, my neighbor, through the screen door. She’d been watching from her porch, sipping iced tea like this was a spectator sport.
“Just a little drip,” I said, gesturing at the faucet as if it were a malfunctioning pet.
She marched over, heels clacking like a drumline. “Let me fix that.”
Ten minutes later, the faucet was disassembled into a pile of chrome parts, and Mrs. Peabody was crouched under the sink, muttering about “old-timey plumbing.” I heard a clang, then a hiss. “Uh,” I said, “is that supposed to happen?”
She emerged, smirking, holding a wrench like a trophy. “Fixed it.”
The sink now sprayed water in all directions, resembling a broken sprinkler. Mrs. Peabody nodded, satisfied. “You’re welcome.”
I stared at the puddle forming at my feet. “It’s… more efficient now.”
She patted my shoulder. “Anytime, dear. Next time, just let me handle it.”
The drip-drip-drip resumed, but now it had company. A high-pitched squeal from the shower. Somewhere, a toilet flushed in solidarity.
