The kitchen faucet he’d kept saying he’d “get to” continued its plunk, plunk, plunk into the aluminum sink. His idea. I’d wanted porcelain.

“Aluminum is cheaper,” he’d said.

I’d threatened to call a plumber at fifty-five dollars.

“It doesn’t need more than a sixty-cent washer. I’ll get to it.”

I knew that. I could have fixed it myself any day I wanted to. I don’t know why I didn’t except I think I just wanted him to do something for me. It seemed like a lifetime since he’d pressed his naked body against mine, flooding my insides with his heat, clinging to me like a life raft in a thunder storm.

The refrigerator was packed with well-meaning casseroles, as if I could eat my way out of sorrow. Ice clamored into my glass. I poured another shot of Stoli. The plunk, plunk, plunk like the rhythm of a heartbeat now.

I’ll get to it.

# # #

Jayne Martin is a 2017 Pushcart nominee, 2016 winner of Vestal Review’s VERA award, and a 2018 Best Small Fictions nominee. Her work has appeared in Literary Orphans, Spelk, Crack the Spine, Midwestern Gothic, MoonPark Review, Blink-Ink, Dime Show Review, Connotation Press and Hippocampus among others. She lives in California where she drinks copious amounts of fine wine and rides horses, though not at the same time. Find her on Twitter @Jayne_Martin.

Photo: Monica Silva