A Sluggish Trickle

A clear, pale droplet hung from the mouth of a tipped shampoo bottle across the porcelain curve. I climbed steadily up the rim. Cold ceramic beneath my feet. I halted and waited. The liquid stretched downward, refusing to break. Thick. Stubborn. I extended two knuckles and braced them against the slow creep of the gel. It divided around my touch without splashing, clinging dense and cold against my surface. Good resistance. I stood motionless, letting the heavy bead settle against my weight.