Interminable

interminable \in-TUR-muh-nuh-buhl\, adjective:
so long as to seem endless; never stopping

Listening to the sound of the slow drip of the bathroom faucet, he lies awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. Counting each plop, he waits for sleep. At one hundred and fifty seven, his eyes won't even droop, and he knows it's useless. Throwing the blankets off of him, he swings his legs around to the side of the bed and puts his flat feet on the floor. Placing his hands on either side of his butt, he clenches the mattress and stares at his toes. He wiggles them. Splays them. Tries to cross one over another, but he never can.
Sighing, he pushes himself up, readjusts his pajama bottoms and heads for the kitchen. Passing the open door to the bathroom, he stops, leans in, and gives the cold water tap one more twist to the right. The water stops for a second, but then continues. Watching passively for a minute, he contemplates the droplets as they collect at the mouth of the faucet and then fall splat onto the ceramic bowl of the sink.
Reaching out, he sticks his pointer finger into the opening and lets the water trickle to his knuckle where it slips and snuggles into the creases below his thumb, before running into the center of his palm. Shivering a little from the coolness of it, he watches as the tiny stream of water that started from his finger eventually pools at his wrist and absorbs into the long sleeve of his cotton pajama top, and the reverberation of water droplets finally stops. Holding back the flood, he stands with one arm extended. If only he could lie down, he would sleep.