The Second Most Important Thing
Number 1: The Decision
He’s at work, I rationalized. He’ll never know.
My upper lip was pushed in, my lower incisors pressing it into their opposite uppers. Decision made, I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
I have to do it.
I struggled to stand. The couch was designed to fit someone 6’5”; I am not that someone. My feet don’t touch the floor on my own now discontinued Ikea Ektorp sofa, but here, my knees didn’t even reach the edge of the seat cushion.
Stella watched me with disdain.
Ignore her, I told myself. She’s a cat.
The first set of stairs was broad with an oriental style runner. I held the dark wood of the banister and ascended, slowly, hesitantly . When I had walked down those steps earlier that day, I paused on the switchback landing and imagined myself a star in a gown of emerald silk more elegant than glamorous, an emerald pendant subtlety highlighting my cleavage, a classic updo, and understated Jimmy Choo pumps. It took my thoughts off the very real fear that I would Jack-and-Jill my way down in my sneakers.
I crept down the hallway to the attic stairs. It was as much an attic as my Nikes were thousand dollar Jimmy Choo Saeda Embellished Satin Pumps. He had converted the attic into a bedroom – and by bedroom I mean a sleeping area more than roomy enough for a king sized bed, a sitting area the size of my living room, and a small nook. I had tried to read in that nook. It seemed like the perfect spot with an over-sized chair, but even with a table lamp, the nook – and the room – was too dark, too overwhelmingly masculine, and too still. I often left lights and the overhead fan on – he thought I was careless, but there were 10 light switches. I wasn’t comfortable being alone in the room. Flipping all the light switches felt like snooping. It was his room. He never offered a drawer in the dresser that stored extra linens and unworn clothes. I had asked if I could have a tv tray in the nook to use as a desk for my computer, but he didn’t respond. My space in the room was confined to the left side of the bed.
I looked around guiltily. What if he came home?
This is your only option.
I inhaled and held my breath. This time both of my lips were pulled in.
I exhaled, paused, and then entered the en suite. The en suite was perhaps 15 feet long. My destination was on the far side of the walk in shower.
Another inhale. Another exhale. I bit the inside of my cheek.
He’ll never know.
Number 2.1: Battle Ready
A month earlier, he walked into my small kitchen. The fresh kitchen towel hanging neatly on the oven door handle drew his eye. It was pink, bright, almost fluorescent, dotted with a cartoonesque woman wrestling an alligator, and read, Do one thing everyday that scares your family. With an almost suppressed smile and closed eyes, he shook his head – just like he had done when he caught me singing to myself about peanut butter and jelly in Costco.
I’m making tea, I told him. Do you want a cup?
I held up the package of Bigelow “I Love Lemon”.
I reached for the Far Side mug that I knew made him smile.
I’ll have it when I’m finished. Before I could question what he needed to finish, he continued. Should I use the upstairs or downstairs bathroom?
Before I could ask, he continued.
Which toilet flushes better? Are you going upstairs or staying downstairs? Where’s the plunger?
I was not prepared for this conversation.
They are the same? My statement was a question. I needed a moment to process this conversation.
The plunger is downstairs, but take it upstairs? Another statement question.
He held the plunger like a knight on the list field, prepared to joust. His footsteps were heavy but muffled on the carpeted steps. The bathroom door clicked shut.
I curled up on the Ektorp sofa as comfortably as I could knowing that the man with whom I was intimate had armed himself with a plunger to battle dragons and save the realm. Legs tucked and covered with the gray plaid tied blanket gifted to me by a colleague, I leaned into the armrest, set the Lemon Lift tea on a coaster, patted my lap to invite Sneaky, my daughter’s brown and gray tabby, and opened Octavia Butler.
Several pages and flushes later, the door opened and the muted stairs moaned softly.
Did you say you were making tea?
He asked, stopping in front of me and stretching a satisfied stretch.
It’s on the counter, I told him, but it’s probably cold by now.
Colder than your feet at night, he called from the kitchen. I heard the microwave.
Tea heated, he set it on the table at the other end of the Ektorp. He sat down and reached for my legs under the blanket. The cat jumped down as he put my feet in his lap.
I hesitated, weighed my words, and spoke them lightly, ever so lightly.
Well, I said, it appears that our relationship leveled up. You pooped here.
He looked at me quizzically.
I go here all the time, but we ate that lentil salad with almonds and kale for lunch and hamburgers for dinner.
We sat in silence, thinking about relationships, fiber, and defecation.
Don’t you have to go? He finally asked.
Remember when I said I had a library hold that I had to get today? I was lying. I went at the library and then checked out a book.
You went at the library? He was incredulous. You gotta get over that.
Pushing off my feet, he leaned down to kiss me. Our faces were close, his eyes –
It was explosive. It smelled.
That’s disgusting! That’s a biohazard.
He laughed, kissed my forehead, and laughed again.
That’s a military grade fart there. You gotta get over it, he repeated as he took our cups to the sink.
Number 2.2: Difficult Matters
But I didn’t.
Telling him that I loved him wasn’t difficult. I loved him, so I said it.
Love is easy.
Relationships are hard.
Pooping shouldn’t be hard in theory or practice.
But today, it would be.
I hadn’t pooped in three days, maybe even four. If I had my car, I would have driven to McDonalds or the library to defecate without fear, but I didn’t, so I couldn’t.
It had to be done.
I decided on his bedroom bathroom. That would give me plenty of warning time should he come home early. If I feared a lingering smell, I could stall him from going upstairs.
The going itself, it turned out, wasn’t the problem.
Number 2.3: The Aftermath
Pick up pick up pick up, I pleaded.
But she didn’t pick up.
Jeanne: in a meeting. everything okay?
I texted back.
the toilet’s clogged.
I realized that she wouldn’t understand the pressing nature, so I continued tapping furiously.
me: im at Kyles. he’s at work. what do i do? Jeanne: shit me: that’s not funny jeanne: sorry me: idk what to do jeanne: does he have a plunger? me: I tried that. jeanne: is it low flush? me: idk. does it matter? jeanne: idk maybe let the toilet rest. wait five minutes. plunge and text me.
Number 2.4: kryptonite
me: it didn’t work. poo is gone but still not flushing right. this doesn’t make sense. he has 6’5 poo. i have 5’3 poo. how can it handle his poo but not mine.
Kyle: what are u talking about?
shit
me to Jeanne: i texted him instead of you! what do i do? Jeanne: shit me: that’s not helping! Jeanne: sorry.
Kyle: u there?
shit
Kyle: u ok?
I stared at the phone, willing it to vanish.
I felt the vibration a half-second before the sounds of Superman. His ring.
I looked at the window, willing Superman to appear, but I saw only Stella on the window sill, and she was looking at me.
I looked back at the phone.
There was no other option.
I accepted the call.
It wasn’t Superman.
Are you okay? He spoke quickly. Concerned.
Yes. No. Yes. I meant to text Jeanne. Kyle, the toilet won’t flush. I can’t fix it. My words tumbled into themselves.
That’s crappy. He chuckled.
That’s not funny, Kyle! I chided him before he finished enjoying his joke.
Calm down, Andrea. It’s not a big deal. Use the plunger.
I tried the plunger! I am calm! Don’t tell me to calm down!
I was not calm.
Fine. You’re calm. The plunger works. I’ll be home around 5:30.
He hung up.
Fuck Superman.
Number 2.5: The Reckoning
The door opened.
I’m sorry. I blurted.
What? He put his wallet and keys on the table. The top button of his shirt was already open, but now he unbuttoned the rest.
Superman ripped his shirt.
I couldn’t do it. The toilet. It isn’t working. I confessed.
Why didn’t you use the plunger? He unbuttoned the cuffs and shed his dress shirt. That morning, I had decided to call it a dusty blue. Now he stood in front of me in his white Fruit of the Loom t-shirt.
I’m not stupid. I tried for 30 minutes. I snapped.
I’d rather admit failure than be patronized.
He shook his head without amusement and walked up the switchback staircase. There was no hesitation or imagination. His steps were loud. Too loud.
10 minutes.
15 minutes.
What did I do?
30 minutes.
I should leave.
You don’t have a car, I reminded myself.
If you had a car, you wouldn’t be in this mess.
45 minutes.
Stella watched me.
Footsteps.
Heavy, but not angry.
Do you even know how to plunge? It only took one. He sat next to me and pulled my legs onto his lap. He was wearing navy sweatpants and an old t-shirt with a faded dancing Snoopy, now slightly damp where he hadn’t dried off completely. He smelled of green pine and lemon.
I bet Superman plunged Lois Lane’s toilet. I told him.
Kyle considered the scenario before shaking his head.
Too strong. One plunge, and the pipes would burst from the force.
Next time, I told Stella, I’m calling Jimmy Olsen.
Once again, a good read!!! You are definitely a good writer, as if I know something about writing or writers. Your writing is so interesting Andrea, you keep the interest going. Keep up the good work!!! Love you.