washing machine repair

He comes home a crewless ship, beached on wood planks and rocks, boots dragging seaweed on sandy carpet.

No shoes in the home! but it’s too late; waves have engulfed the ship; it is swaying and virtually gone back

to sea. He lays his thermos and hard cap on a pile of papers lying on a pile of binders placed on a milk carton. You forgot

regarding Jim’s parent-teacher meeting. He sighs because she is correct. His punishment will be that she is correct. And her voice will be

a siren summoning cedars to rocks. A knock at the door; it opens on its own, presenting a guy with half-cut expectancy. The guy at the door looks

passed the guy with shabby clothing and seaweed shoes and sent the lady a face-like patterns fitting

then becoming discordant. Well, says the guy, shuffling his feet, I must be at the incorrect location, and, of course, he’s

No, he’s just come at the wrong moment. The ship falls further in the sandy shelf, the floor has a groan, and the oars of effort have broken.

He gets run aground. Watching the plastic-bowl ceiling of yellow constellations, he blinks; time has gone into a cup or quart.

Jar while the stern floats, meaningless. The sail is ripped and the mast is toppled. The rudder is bent. He staggers to the sofa, weary.

when the ship lies on its side, taking on seawater. He’s left with stony gray graveyard acceptance. Kids go rushing through the house. You’re just

going to sit on the sofa, she says, but he’s in a meadow, far away, unable to hear her voice, unable to see her driftwood face.

That washer is still broken; it's been broken two weeks, TWO WEEKS, but she’s become a chanting monk. He awakens and opens

his eyes. Another day has occurred, as if from a wellspring; he walks to the coffeemaker and prepares the last of the grinds in the percolator. He watches

it long and attentively until it is done, then pours a cup. Tails of steam ascend. She crosses the kitchen with a stack

of cash, and inserts them in his hand with a screwdriver. The washer, remember? Then she grabs his cup.

He glances at the screwdriver in his palm, its weight strange but somehow grounding. The coffee remains untouched on the counter, steam rolling upward like a passing idea. She glides by him, her gait quick, her load of duties balanced smoothly as if defying gravity. “The washer,” she adds again, her voice quieter this time, nearly a whisper.

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he waits at the sink, watching the window cloud with moisture. Outside, the morning is dark, clouds pressing low, promising rain. The air seems thick and charged, as if something unseen is going to break.

For a time, he thinks of the ship again—the shattered mast, the tangled sails. He wonders whether it’s even worth saving. Perhaps it’s supposed to sink. But suddenly, there’s the faint sound of laughter from the other room—the kids, tumbling through their morning mayhem, unconscious of the seriousness in his quiet.

He goes toward the door, the screwdriver clenched loosely in his palm. “Where are you going?” she says, turning around to face him. There’s no fury in her voice anymore, just curiosity tinged with something else—concern, maybe, or resignation.

He stops, staring at her for a long period. “I’ll fix it,” he offers, but his tone is unclear.

The door creaks when he opens it, the outside world rushing in. Whether he means the washing, the ship, or something else completely, none of them knows for sure.

The door shuts quietly behind him.

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