25
L
auren woke at the reasonable hour of eight and brushed her teeth over the kitchen sink.
All forty-eight of them,
she thought.
I don’t have that many, Patrick.
She returned to her bedroom, fluffed her pillows, and went back to bed.
All vacations should be this easy. I may even move my TV in here. Yes. That will be the extent of my labor today.
She checked her e-mail and deleted several hundred without reading them, until only Patrick’s latest e-mail sat in her in-box.
Yes! He sent a picture!
She downloaded the picture.
He’s . . . wow.
He’s . . . tall.
Huge hands.
I am impressed.
Patrick is impressive.
She kicked off her covers to cool off from the heat rising from her legs.
He didn’t say he was muscular. Look at those arms and shoulders! And those dark eyes. Wow. They’re sexy and kind at the same time. Ooh, what a sexy beard.
This man is not ordinary at all.
He’s hot.
Very.
But how do I to tell him he’s extraordinary and hot without sounding as if I’m in heat?
I don’t think I can.
And I really don’t think I should.
She saved the picture to her computer and then replaced her lame California coastline background with his picture.
Yeah, I could look at him all day. He
is
tall. I wonder where he’s standing, though. That can’t be his kitchen. It’s too girly. No man has blue ducks on his walls.
She popped up his e-mail and hit the
REPLY
button.
Patrick:
You lied to me.
You are hotter than the Boss.
You are an extremely handsome man. I knew you were beautiful. And if you don’t mind my saying so, if handymen ever did a calendar, you’d be the one I’d want for the months of December, January, February, and March. You’re the kind of man who can make spring come early. You’re the kind of man who can melt snow on the street. You’re the kind of man the sun is jealous of. You’re the kind of man who has seriously raised the temperature in my apartment. I had to turn on the A/C. I had to take a cold shower. I have an ice bag on my head right now.
In other words . . . you fo-ine.
I like what I see very much.
Very.
Much.
Whose kitchen is that?
Lauren
PS: Very. Much. Please send more! I need a portfolio! ; )
26
O
nce he had Mrs. Schoonmaker’s sink draining after a few minutes of torching her pipes, Patrick headed to the basement to make sure the main sewer drain was behaving.
It wasn’t behaving.
At all.
A one-inch coating of brown, semi-frozen, glistening goo greeted him.
But I just snaked this drain a few days ago! Geez! Will these people stop eating so much roughage?
While the snake chewed and whined through the muck, Patrick found Mrs. Gildersleeve’s unprotected Wi-Fi signal and checked his e-mail.
Lauren’s awake! And I didn’t disgust her with my picture. She even sounds . . . interested. If that’s the right word. I’ve obviously warmed her up, but how would I know if a woman is truly interested? It’s not as if I’ve had much practice. It’s a good thing neither of us is looking for a new relationship.
Though she sounds as if she is. I think I shall test her.
Lauren:
I was in Mrs. Gildersleeve’s kitchen. Her sink was stopped up because of a frozen pipe. I doubt you have frozen pipes in Los Angeles. She took my picture and said I didn’t smile. I did. Really.
Right now I’m re-snaking (which isn’t a word) a sewer drain in a cold basement and thinking of you.
See how unromantic I am? I guess I need practice.
Since I will be here awhile, and since I am borrowing a Wi-Fi signal while I wait, why don’t you send me a recent picture of you? Send one that shows me what you look like without makeup or clothes.
I mean, send one that shows me what you look like without nice clothes on.
Oh, I’m sure you have nice clothes.
Send me what you look like at this moment.
Patrick
27
M
y handyman has gone from flirting to frisky,
Lauren thought.
I like that.
A lot.
I shall return the favor.
She looked at the thin light green T-shirt and thinner navy blue panties she was wearing.
This could get very interesting.
She picked up her phone, turned it on, and went into the bathroom. She looked at the towels on the floor, the mess in the sink, and the shower curtain crying out to be replaced.
A perfect background.
She snapped several pictures of herself with her phone, each more daring than the last, her neckline plunging lower, her panties becoming a thong, her “torso” becoming more and more visible.
Now, which one do I send? I know I should only send him the head shot, but I’m feeling frisky, too. I should send all of them to warm up his day.
But what if . . .
No. I will show some restraint, because I am not a hoochie.
Yet.
She sent the first picture to herself and saved it to her computer before attaching it to a blank e-mail.
Patrick:
This is me. No makeup, hair a mess and face dry, shirt wrinkled. It’s what I look like when I get out of bed. Try not to gag, and ignore my messy bathroom.
Lauren
PS: I took several more pictures, but I’m afraid I got carried away. Use your imagination.
The second after she sent the message, Lauren closed her eyes.
And now I’m scared.
Why am I scared?
Millions of people have looked at me for years in movies and in magazines, but this . . . this one picture matters.
This picture matters more than any other because I
need
someone to like it.
I need Patrick to like it.
Please like it, Patrick.
Please like me.
She tried to slow her breathing.
I should have sent the last one. I still have a nice booty, and he called it sculpture.
Her breathing increased.
No, no, the head shot is the best shot. For now.
I hope.
28
P
atrick watched the photograph as it downloaded line by excruciating line, and when he had Lauren in the flesh in front of him, his heart thudded.
She’s . . .
My God.
There are no words.
If she looks this good when she wakes up and rolls out of bed...
He looked at the lake of goo receding sluggishly toward the drain as the snake churned on.
And this is what
I
look like sixteen hours a day . . .
An e-mail pinged into his in-box. He opened it.
Patrick:
You’re keeping me in suspense, and you know I don’t like to wait.
I’m sitting here thinking you lost the signal, or the picture froze during the download, or Microsoft decided to do an intrusive update and it slowed your computer to a crawl, or I should have sent one of the other more risqué pictures, or you don’t like the one I sent you, or the one I sent you scrambled into something horrible.
If you haven’t already figured it out, I’m slightly self-conscious, all right? Just slightly.
Oh, all right. I am very self-conscious, but I have every reason to be because I have just spent seven years with a bisexual man who told me I was beautiful almost daily when he didn’t mean it at all. I just need confirmation, okay?
You have to have the picture by now. What do you think? And you don’t have to sugarcoat it. I can take a bad review.
Lauren
PS: Why didn’t you tell me you were muscular? I likes, I likes. ; )
She likes, she likes. I guess that’s something. And I’ve never lifted weights in my life. I earned these muscles pipe by cinder block by wrench by hammer and by nail.
He turned off the snake and cranked the hose back into its housing.
And especially by snake. I may not hate cranking this snake nearly as much from now on.
Maybe there’s hope, because my “job,” such as it is, has given Lauren something to like.
She wouldn’t like this aroma, though.
He turned his head away from the stench and searched for a clean gulp of air as his phone buzzed. He answered it. “This is Patrick.”
“What in the
hell
is going on?” a man cried. “I sit down, I flush, and the toilet nearly overflows!”
Mr. Hyer.
“I know, Mr. Hyer, and I’m working on it. I’m in the basement right now. It’s slow going because of the cold.”
“You should have fixed it right the first time!” he yelled. “Don’t you know what you are doing?”
“I know what I’m doing, Mr. Hyer,” Patrick said. “I’m doing the best I can.”
“If you were doing your best, you would not be here again today!”
Patrick glanced at Lauren’s picture.
She wouldn’t take this abuse. Of course, she wouldn’t be here in this basement to take this abuse.
“Mr. Hyer, try to understand. Instead of one family and two toilets, there are
eight
families and
eight
toilets all using one ancient drainpipe that—”
“I do not want to hear it,” Mr. Hyer interrupted. “Fix it now!”
Click.
Patrick looked at edge of the pool of goo, which had suddenly moved two inches—in the
wrong
direction.
I am going to be here awhile.
I think I’ll name this place Lake Holland.
He smiled at Lauren’s picture.
At least the view is nice from the shore.
He again fed the snake through the muck and then restarted it.
Lake Holland sat unmoved.
While the snake sought out the main line again, Patrick turned and typed.
Lauren:
You are too beautiful for words, although I have some thoughts going through my head that I’m afraid to share with you. I hope you understand.
I’m in the basement of a building built during the 1890s, trying to unclog the same sewer line I unclogged the other day, and you want me to let you know what’s going through my mind when I see a breathtaking picture of you. I’m afraid that if I tell you how utterly, painfully beautiful you are, you might be offended. So I won’t tell you that my heart hurts to see your beauty. I won’t tell you that you aren’t stunning. You’re astonishing. I won’t tell you that I have never seen someone who has just rolled out of bed looking so beautiful. You can’t make me tell you how much my hands are trembling as I type this because of your heart-stopping beauty. And I most definitely won’t ever tell you that I will never be the same again from this moment until the day I die.
You can’t make me talk, Copper.
Patrick
PS: You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.
29
L
auren Short cried for the first time since her father’s funeral. She had often forced herself to cry in movie scenes, but this time her sobbing was real.
She had no Kleenex and had to use toilet paper. She realized she would need more toilet paper soon.
He thinks I’m beautiful.
He’s beautiful.
Therefore, we’re beautiful.
And we should be together.
Somehow.
And soon.
She wiped her eyes.
I’m still beautiful. Imagine that. And a
real
man said so.
Patrick:
Thank you for sharing by not sharing. You made me cry, but in a good way, a very good way. Your words . . . ! You have a devastating way with words. I’m not exactly sure what “painfully beautiful” means, but it touched me to the deepest part of my soul.
I know I said I wasn’t looking, and I’m not. Really.
Not anymore.
Why go looking when I’ve already found somebody in you? You’ve become more than a friend, Patrick. Much more. You’re a lifeline, man. You’ve given me life. “Got to Get You into My Life” (the Earth, Wind & Fire version) is going through my head right now.
Okay, okay, you originally found me. I have to give you all the credit. And to think I might have skipped past your e-mail. You know how you got me to read your first one? You didn’t put anything in the subject line. I’m a sucker for blanks, I guess. Now we have a long line of “Re:” up there. I wonder what the record is, but I don’t want to set that record, okay?
It is obvious to me that we should meet face-to-face, and from what you’ve just told me, it is obvious to you, too. We are already in agreement, so what are we waiting for?
There’s just one little thing I have to learn about you first. Really a technicality, hardly worth mentioning. (This is part of my “good cop” interrogating technique. You can’t resist me, so don’t even try.)
You see, since you sent me your picture, I have had numerous thoughts involving you in those coveralls. I feel you holding me in your strong hands and rubbing my back, and then you lift me into the air, and you gently whisper something into my ear. . . .
What do you whisper to me, Patrick?
Lauren
PS: Spill it, or the torture will continue. I’m good when I play the good cop, but I’m oh so bad when I play the bad cop. ; )
She sent the message and waited precisely one minute before Patrick’s e-mail arrived.
Lauren:
I whisper, “It’s going to be all right, Lauren. I’ve got you. I won’t let you go. You can hold on to me all night.”
Patrick
Lauren began to tremble.
“That’s . . . good,” she whispered. “That’s . . . the right answer. I need to hear that every day.”
But I need to move this along a little faster . . . .
Patrick:
I say breathlessly, as only an actress can be breathless (of course), “Take me somewhere, anywhere. Now!”
Where do you take me, Patrick?
Lauren