Toward the Drip

A slow, rhythmic tapping drew me across the wooden boundary. Tap... tap. Water was dripping into a low metal drain. A damp towel blocked the doorway like a fallen reef. I did not search for an open path around it. I dropped my snout, dug my broad flippers into the tile seam, and shoved hard against the heavy cloth. The wet fabric yielded, folding back under my bulk. Now I rest on the cool tiles, close enough to feel the faint mist.