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“So,” I said. “It’s already scheduled?”
“Please,” she said. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m going to the clinic on Tuesday.”
I looked up while sliding the knife through the tomato and cut deep into my finger. I squeezed it with my other hand, pressing out the blood, forcing the muscle and skin back together and the cut power lines inside blazed against each other. “Okay,” I said. I turned for the chair.
“Okay,” she said. She was standing at the front door with our laundry in a pale blue basket on her hip.
I pulled a chair out with my elbow but it was full of our unpaid bills so I turned on the warm water and held my hand underneath. The water turned pink after my finger and filled the sink, mixing with soft bloated leftover noodles. I said, “Sink’s clogged again.”
“Harry’s in the driveway. I’ll let him know.”
I said. “Does the rent cover this?”
“Regular wear and tear,” she said. She hiked the basket up, opened the door and left.
I went to the bathroom for a band aid and when I realized the mess I was making I carried the box back to the kitchen sink, dripping scatterbombs on the cracked linoleum. I rested my hand on the edge five minutes or so watching a small burgundy stream pour down the stainless steel into the pool of dirty water, turning it darker and darker until I could only see halfway to the bottom and the noodles looked like something altogether different.
Harry came in the door and crossed the kitchen with a plunger in his hand. “Carry’s startin’ to show,” he said.
I said, “Yeah.”
The brick colored rubber disappeared in the warm water so only the yellow handle showed. “She’ll be herself times ten soon and she’ll blame you for everything. Trust me. But it makes you a better man in the end. Just show her you care.” He pumped until the water receded.
“Thanks,” I said.
He held the plunger at his side now, letting the water run down the handle. “If you guys ever need anything just let me know. It can be a real scrape.”
“I will. Thanks.”
He walked back to the door and opened it. He said, “Don’t put food down that drain.” And he left.
The last of the water passed through noodles, all piled up on the strainer and I didn’t like the way the blood looked running down the side and sliding across the bottom so I let it drip directly over the noodles. I watched for a long time and began to feel a deep broad pain in my bowels and I didn’t think the cut would ever stop bleeding. Or hurting.
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It's a tough old world. Better critique me before I make my way down that list to you.
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