This never happens to plumbers.

In the plumber world things make sense. There it is all water and gravity. You channel the water in, you channel it back out. Pipes. Gravity does most of the work.

My world makes no sense. Marie is on the floor and my knuckles hurt.

The plumber has it easy. Pipes bring water in, pipes bring water out. And it is easy to tell whether it works. When you flush, the bowl empties and the waste pipe devours. New water fills the bowl ready for the next guest. It’s clean and clear. It works or it doesn’t. When it does you can feel pride and a sense of accomplishment and you render a bill. If it does not, you fix it until it does and then you can feel pride and a sense of accomplishment and you render a bill. Dad’s a plumber. He doesn’t render many bills these days though.

It started plumbing enough. Love her. Just that. She was the most beautiful, wonderful, perfect girl in the world. If she had a shortcoming it was loving me. Unless, of course, that made me perfect too. I liked to think so.

And I really did. Love her. I chained myself to my obsession and did not sleep. She worked the day shift at Seven Eleven and had to sleep. She slept a perfect sleep. She slept deep chestfuls of air and not a hint of snoring raised her chest over and over and over. Her one arm slung across her breasts, the other out and over the edge of the bed. So easily breakable.

So simple. Loving her. I sat and watched her until my presence punctured sleep and she suddenly looked at me, eyes not quite open, and said, “Honey, what are you doing?”

“Looking at you,” I said.

“Go to sleep.”

She did. I did not.

She woke up. “You been up all night?”

“Yes,” I said. “Looking at you.”

“You crazy.”

“I know.”

She held her toothbrush with authority and brushed with perfect strokes. Sparkle, sparkle and kisses tasted so good. Mine must not have. From up all night and coffee and cigarettes. Still, she didn’t grimace. She smiled and said see ya and was out the door.

Soft shoes on stone stairs tap-tapping down then a squeak, a gasp of street noise, a thud, then nothing. Just me, loving her. Waiting.

Plumbers have blueprints. Sinks go here. Traps and overflows. Valves and cleanouts. A drain there. A vent here. Dishwasher. Toilets here, here and there. Showers. All laid out. Regulations, plumbing codes.

They have found ten thousand year old plumbing.

Love starts out like plumbing. Kisses go here. Smiles there. Swirls around the living room just like Fred and Ginger and make love with your eyes open often and often. Breakfast in bed just so and such sweet thank you kisses and it is all clean and well laid out and love like gravity does most of the work and you fall in with the rhythm and all goes according to code.

To start with. No wrinkles. No side-thoughts. No choices. Just the pull of love and everything fits. Her one shoe here and the other there isn’t messy, it’s cute. She calls her long legs skinny, I call them slender. She adores Elvis which makes her loveable though I can’t stand him. Nothing grates. I’m pulled but can’t tell the pulling and it’s all perfect. Every pipe, every u-bend fits; every elbow joins just right; every tee serves its purpose and everything flows. All gravity.

Three days now. I haven’t slept. Three days and all is well. I guard the perfection. I’m afraid that sleep will break it. I remember breakings. The tiniest crack can do it, like a scratch on a new car which is now there and which was not there only moments ago. And once the scratch is there it is there to stay. I cannot undo time, and the scratch, huge now from constant inspection and re-inspection, is there and love is no longer whole. With Marie there is no scratch. She is all shine. She works until four and I am awake and waiting, cigarettes and coffee. I’m looking at the bed where she no longer sleeps, at the valley dug in the pillow by her head, a sock, another, a blouse. Pants on the floor by the chair. Bra on the seat. Remnants of Marie. I am sick with love.

I am tired but not. Thoughts sprout and set out. I watch. They are like things that breathe. I don’t have to think them, they think themselves into being. I must tell Marie about them. The float on air and sail on murky waters that is more like coffee and fog like cigarette smoke.

Into darkness. Did I sleep? Her bra on the chair. Her socks on the floor. Her key turns the lock. She’s here.

“What’s the matter, honey? See a ghost?”

“No, no.”

“Gawd, you look awful. D’you get some sleep?”

“Not sure.”

She drops her shoulder bag on the floor and goes into the kitchen. “Want some coffee?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Gravity returns and opens the faucet as I fill with love. No scratches. I walk over to the kitchen where Marie moves a pile of plates brown with meals past to make room for two mugs. The coffee is instant. She pours hot water. Adds milk for me, sugar for her.

My coffee, light brown, has small flecks of white swirling on the surface from her stirring.

“How old is that milk?”

“Dunnow.”

I lift it up and read. Two days dead. I smell. Smells it. I look up at Marie but see only her back moving into the room. She brushes the bra off the chair and sits down. Her dress rustles. She chews gum, lights a cigarette. Heaves a sigh. I float on love into the room and smell the smoke.

Good plumbing. Copper pipes rush hot water to you the moment you open the faucet. The garbage disposer grinds everything into molecules. The shower is flawless, drains wide open. Not a drip, not a leak. It is a system without flaws. No scratches. All blueprint.

“I could do with a back rub.”

She smiles and lifts her long legs onto the bed and leans back into the chair. Closes her eyes. Her knee caps stick out like cute little rocks.

She kicks off her shoes as I float behind her to deliver. Her toes look happy to be let out. Her neck is long and slender like a swan’s. Downey and ridged with fine vertebrae. Her little toes look stunted. Like after thoughts. But I know it’s from wearing tight shoes. Girls do that. Some boys too. Mine are not all that stunted though, although my left little toe nail is half missing from an accident I will not forgive my father.

She moans as I press and circle my thumbs into muscle. I love the feeling of her skin and I get an erection from touching it. She doesn’t seem to know what to do with her hands.

“A little to the left.”

I comply and she moans again.

And there is nothing in the world I would rather do than this. Than rubbing her neck. Than doing good. Than making feel good. Than applying love. I can feel her relax. I can almost hear her smile. She is a big cat.

She is not quite blond. I brush aside strands of off-brown hair. I stoop to smell. It is not clean. When did she last shower? When did I last shower? I must smell too.

“Hey, don’t stop.”

Did I drift? My thoughts are sluggish now. Not so eager to take off. I find my thumbs again.

“I’m starving. Have any money?”

I work her left shoulder.

“A few bucks.”

“Enough for pizza?”

“Think so.”

“Don’t stop. I’ll order.”

She picks up the phone and I work my way over to the right to make room for her left ear to hear. I work her neck again and down her back and around under her arms to the tender weight of breasts and here’s my erection again. The pizza arrives too quickly.

We sit on the bed and eat straight out of the box. I spill sauce on the sheet. She dribbles grease on her dress. She’s crossed her legs like a yogi and her knees are more like weapons now.

She looks at me with eating eyes.

“So. Gonna get a job?”

As soon as I can find planet Earth. “Sure.”

“When?”

She gets up and comes back with some toilet paper. Hands me a couple of feet of it. Wipes her mouth with the rest.

“I haven’t . . .”

“Rent’s due tomorrow.”

She looks at the last piece of pizza. I don’t want it. She takes it without checking. It drips on her leg. She takes a huge bite from the wedge end. My hard-on’s all gone. She chews with her mouth partly open and makes small smacking sounds.

She must have a metabolism that can melt nails.

Her dress has slid all the way up and her thigh shows a blue little river of vein.

“How much is it?”

“Four fifty.”

“How much do you have?”

“Three hundred.”

“I’ll get the rest.”

Not sure where. Mom won’t talk to me. Dad perhaps. Only he wants to put these damn loans in writing. Means I have to get out to Van Nuys and kiss up.

“Right.”

The little river swells into a scratch.

“You don’t believe me?”

“Where would you get a hundred fifty bucks?”

“I have sources.”

“Right.”

“No, seriously.”

She talks around the crust. “Okay, I believe you.”

She unfolds and brings the pizza box into the kitchen.

“Thanks for taking out the trash.”

“Sorry.” And I close my eyes to lose the river but I soon look again and there’s another strung down her calf. Blue and angry. She mumbles and ties the garbage bag and heads for the door.

“I’ll do that.”

“No, it’s okay.”

She’s out the door. It doesn’t quite slam. I’m tired. I lie down. Close my eyes. Into darkness.

It’s morning. She’s dressed and looking down at me.

“Don’t forget the hundred fifty,” she says and is out the door.

Right. Van Nuys. I close my eyes and set out for his house and into darkness. She shakes my shoulder.

“Hey. Wake up.”

It’s afternoon. She’s looking down at me again.

“You didn’t get the money, did you?”

“What?”

“You slept all day?”

“What time is it?”

“Five.”

Big eyes.

“Well, can you get it now?”

“Doubt it.”

“Well, what the fuck?”

“He works nights. He won’t be home.” I lied. He’s impossible unless you catch him sober.

“Who?”

“Dad.”

“Gonna borrow from your dad?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

She doesn’t answer, just shakes her head and dons a fuck superior smile like I was a useless ass fuck kid.

“What’s wrong with that?” I sit up. Stand up. Too suddenly. Sit down. Stand up again.

She doesn’t answer. Just smiles that stupid ass fuck smile and I trigger.

And now I stand watching her and the pipes don’t fit anymore.