the dry bowl up to the old waterline.
“That’s not what you think,” said Don. He pulled a rag out of his pocket and wiped it away. Didn’t even take much rubbing. “I think it’s a kind of mildew or something that grew when they left the water standing here for a few years.” He tossed the rag on the floor.
“I don’t envy you your job,” she said. “It looks to be hard and sweaty and unpleasant.”
“Wouldn’t trade for yours, either,” he said. “Having to be nice to people all day.”
She laughed. “That just shows you don’t know me.”
“What, you aren’t nice?”
“I’m legendary in my office as a real estate terrorist.”
Don was puzzled. How could she stay in business if people didn’t like her?
“No, no, don’t get the wrong idea,” she said. “I’m always cheerful and polite. But when it matters I say what I think—cheerfully and politely.”
“And you’re in sales?”
“It doesn’t require any skills,” she said.
“Hardest skills of all.”
“You think?”
“I work in wood, I know what I’m getting. I can see the grain, I can see the knots.”
“People aren’t much different,” she said with a shrug.
“Harder to read.”
“Easier to bend.”
Cramped together in that bathroom, neither of them willing to lean against anything because it was so dirty, they were so close together Don could feel her breath against his shirt, against his face, could smell her, a light perfume but behind that, her, a little musky maybe, but the womanliness of her almost hurt, it took him so much by surprise. He hadn’t been this close to a woman in a long time. And not just any woman, either. He liked her.
“You bending me?” he asked.
She smiled. “You feeling bent?”
He knew it as if he was in a play and the script said They kiss . Now was the time for him to bend over—not that far, really—and kiss her. He even knew how it would feel, lips brushing lips, mouths melting softly against each other, not passionate but warm and sweet.
“Better check upstairs to see if that bathroom has a usable shower,” he said.
He could hardly believe he said it. But in fact, while he was standing there looking at her and wanting to kiss her, his mind had raced ahead: I can’t hold this woman close to me, I’m dirty and sweaty and I need a bath, she’ll be disgusted. And then he thought: Even if the water got hooked up right now, there’s probably not a shower I could use here. And so he blurted out the next thought and the moment passed.
But it was a real moment, he could see that from the amused little crinkle in her eyes. “Sounds like you care about keeping clean, Mr. Lark,” she said.
“Live in a truck long enough, a shower is like a miracle,” he said.
She laughed. “A miracle with a drainhole.” Then she brushed past him and led the way out of the tight hot bathroom.
Upstairs, the three apartments were smaller than the downstair ones, and they all shared a bathroom. Even when the house was first cut up into apartments it would have been an old-fashioned, cheap arrangement. By the time the house went vacant, it must have been hard to find anybody willing to put up with sharing. The bathroom was at the end of the hall, right at the back of the house.
Don guessed that originally the back stairs had been there, narrower than the wide front staircase, and when the bathrooms were put in that staircase was taken out and the plumbing was run up through the space where it had been. Modern people needed toilets and showers a lot more than they needed a stairway for the kids to get down to the kitchen without being seen by guests in the front room. So the back stairs wouldn’t be restored.
This shower still had a curtain hanging in it, spotted with ancient mildew but not disgusting. And the tub was pretty clean, not even as dusty ashe would have expected. No sign of leaks in the tub; he’d be able to use it as soon as the water was hooked up and he replaced the rusted
“That’s not what you think,” said Don. He pulled a rag out of his pocket and wiped it away. Didn’t even take much rubbing. “I think it’s a kind of mildew or something that grew when they left the water standing here for a few years.” He tossed the rag on the floor.
“I don’t envy you your job,” she said. “It looks to be hard and sweaty and unpleasant.”
“Wouldn’t trade for yours, either,” he said. “Having to be nice to people all day.”
She laughed. “That just shows you don’t know me.”
“What, you aren’t nice?”
“I’m legendary in my office as a real estate terrorist.”
Don was puzzled. How could she stay in business if people didn’t like her?
“No, no, don’t get the wrong idea,” she said. “I’m always cheerful and polite. But when it matters I say what I think—cheerfully and politely.”
“And you’re in sales?”
“It doesn’t require any skills,” she said.
“Hardest skills of all.”
“You think?”
“I work in wood, I know what I’m getting. I can see the grain, I can see the knots.”
“People aren’t much different,” she said with a shrug.
“Harder to read.”
“Easier to bend.”
Cramped together in that bathroom, neither of them willing to lean against anything because it was so dirty, they were so close together Don could feel her breath against his shirt, against his face, could smell her, a light perfume but behind that, her, a little musky maybe, but the womanliness of her almost hurt, it took him so much by surprise. He hadn’t been this close to a woman in a long time. And not just any woman, either. He liked her.
“You bending me?” he asked.
She smiled. “You feeling bent?”
He knew it as if he was in a play and the script said They kiss . Now was the time for him to bend over—not that far, really—and kiss her. He even knew how it would feel, lips brushing lips, mouths melting softly against each other, not passionate but warm and sweet.
“Better check upstairs to see if that bathroom has a usable shower,” he said.
He could hardly believe he said it. But in fact, while he was standing there looking at her and wanting to kiss her, his mind had raced ahead: I can’t hold this woman close to me, I’m dirty and sweaty and I need a bath, she’ll be disgusted. And then he thought: Even if the water got hooked up right now, there’s probably not a shower I could use here. And so he blurted out the next thought and the moment passed.
But it was a real moment, he could see that from the amused little crinkle in her eyes. “Sounds like you care about keeping clean, Mr. Lark,” she said.
“Live in a truck long enough, a shower is like a miracle,” he said.
She laughed. “A miracle with a drainhole.” Then she brushed past him and led the way out of the tight hot bathroom.
Upstairs, the three apartments were smaller than the downstair ones, and they all shared a bathroom. Even when the house was first cut up into apartments it would have been an old-fashioned, cheap arrangement. By the time the house went vacant, it must have been hard to find anybody willing to put up with sharing. The bathroom was at the end of the hall, right at the back of the house.
Don guessed that originally the back stairs had been there, narrower than the wide front staircase, and when the bathrooms were put in that staircase was taken out and the plumbing was run up through the space where it had been. Modern people needed toilets and showers a lot more than they needed a stairway for the kids to get down to the kitchen without being seen by guests in the front room. So the back stairs wouldn’t be restored.
This shower still had a curtain hanging in it, spotted with ancient mildew but not disgusting. And the tub was pretty clean, not even as dusty ashe would have expected. No sign of leaks in the tub; he’d be able to use it as soon as the water was hooked up and he replaced the rusted
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