Broken Sinks

The sink is leaking, a friend said, while I was washing my hands there were drops dripping on my feet, that’s what he said- drying his hands on a piece of white cloth tied to the neck of a fridge open handle.

When did you start to notice that?

I don’t know, it just seemed like it was there all along.

Right. Now that you mention it, you mentioned.

But you never thought of mending the dent and the hole in the pipe on the under-belly of the aluminum gray sink, because all you can afford is to stomach the chopped-up, diced-up garbage trash-food stuck in between the piping. You don’t even wanna imagine the smell.

Later that night you took yourself to write in one of the bound notebooks inside the desk drawer, feeling through the dark undertow of the draw like a blind man. Pencils were in disarray in the other drawer but you took out one familiar one.

The sink is leaking, you wrote in your pocket-notebook, and I don’t know if I should fix it. A friend pointed it out to me today, came out as scribbles on the paper, but I don’t think I should call the plumber. I’ll look it up in the computer first thing tomorrow.

After the dot there was an uneasy silence, both in your mind and on the paper.

You see, you haven’t talked for a while since you said you’d be coming back home to take a break- the last thing you did was drop her an e-mail but she didn’t hit back. Sent her a couple of others a few days later and woke up to discount e-mails and newsletters, but no new letters from her.

You then try to dig through the last morsels of her in your phone, looking for signs.

The last time you looked it was always there, and just that, it felt the quite same with the broken pipe. I don’t know, it just seemed like it was there all along, you said to yourself, fingering through three unresponded e-mails and seen-zones in the morning for lines you sent in the middle of the night.

Should I tell her about the sink pipe?

And proceeds to type in the tiny keyboard screen. But I don’t know if I should fix it, you say to yourself. The thought echoes.

The night ends with a blinking vertical line at the end of a broken, unfinished sentence.

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