A short story
I was finished with the sink. I opened the drawer under it, discarded yet another tissue in the bin and unscrewed the siphon, like every Saturday. The only difference today were my silent tears. There was not a stain left anywhere, not even in the gutter above the balcony. I always did the siphon in the kitchen last, as an ultimate satisfaction. Then, I would be able to sit in the armchair with a book. Then, there would be no unattended tasks lurking at the back of my mind. Then, I would stop holding my tears back and let the torrent of my despair flow out.
The bell rang. I froze, siphon in hand, just a split second. Hopefully, I remembered in time that he had his own key and wouldn’t need to ring the bell. I put the siphon inside the sink, removed my cleaning gloves, blew my nose again and went to open the door, casting glances around, checking for unwanted mess. All was in order, and clean. Then, my mind allowed a glimpse of hope. Perhaps it was him, after all. Coming back at last. After six silent days.
“Hi dear!”
“Sue! Hello. I didn’t expect you.”
“I wasn’t far so I thought I’d pop in to see how you bear your newly-found solitude.” Sue raised her eyebrows. “It looks like you’re down and under.” When I did not move, nor answer, she added, “You know I’m a bit jealous of all your free time, even though I understand it’s hard for you at the moment. Don’t worry, you’ll soon laugh about it.”
I smiled then, and let Sue in. I offered her to sit in the armchair while I was finishing my weekly cleaning but Sue followed me to the kitchen.
“What? You clean this siphon every week?”
“I do. That’s probably why he left me, isn’t it?” I had never been very good at making fun of my cleanliness. I heard the false-tone in my own voice and despised myself for it. I carried on anyway, unscrewing the top part of the siphon from its bottom part, and opening it. And there it was.
The ring.
We both froze before simultaneously bending forward, for a closer look. Our heads knocked and we jerked back in time, as in a choreography. I felt more than heard Sue’s laughter bubbling in her chest, and my body followed her moves, one more time. We were soon laughing our heads off, tears streaming down both our faces now, our hands on our cramped stomachs.
Later, when we could breathe again, Sue exclaimed: “What a bastard!” and laughter seized us again.
The following Saturday, Sue showed up with a gift. I unwrapped a siphon, painted pink and screwed on a wooden base with the caption ‘New Fountain’. It seemed merriment would be with us for ever.
“It’s not a Duchamp, but still. It’s shocking and it makes us laugh.” Sue’s mouth twitched into a crooked smile when she added, in a confidential whisper: “It’s also a ring-holder.”
I went to fetch the couple of rings in my bedroom. His and mine. I threw them inside the pink siphon. Sue and I toasted the occasion.
“Where shall you display it? Fancying the Tate?”
“I won’t stoop that low, no. I’m not a shameful person. Besides, nobody would get the true meaning of this piece of art, but us. I think the shelf above the loo will do very well.”
