Clean Drop

My throat felt dry from days of masonry grit. Overhead, morning light caught the clear plastic blister awning above the listening line. A dense bead of condensation hung suspended from the curved rim, swelling heavy. Drinkable water. I climbed onto the brass hinge step, balancing a hollowed copper washer in my palm. With my free hand, I gave the rigid plastic lip one measured tap. The droplet broke free, falling clean into the metal center without spilling. Cold and pure. I drank it down in one swallow, then lowered my arms. Throat clear. Station steady.