A Measure of Indigo

I returned home from the greenhouse as darkness filled the windows, seeking a quiet surface to close the night. On the walnut credenza sat an open tin of watercolor cakes, accompanied by a small glass eyedropper. A single bead of deep indigo water hung suspended at the glass tip, trembling just above a dry, circular paper blotter. Instead of letting it fall at random, I climbed onto the polished wood, braced my boots against the edge, and gently tapped the glass stem with my finger. The droplet detached, striking dead center. I stood motionless, tracking the pigment expand in an immaculate, circular bloom across eight slow counts until the motion stilled.