Page 2 of The Handyman

"Wow, you're old." I cast her a glance over my shoulder, and she lifts both hands and waves. "I don't mean it like that. Like, you're more than a decade older than me. I'm still twenty-two."

"There are some things we have no control over … like when I was born."

"Of course. Absolutely. I wasn't judging you. My mouth just gets away from me sometimes. Dad once said it would land me in trouble one day."

"I can see that happening."

She sits on the edge of the bathtub behind me and crosses her legs, her right foot bobbing in the air while she talks.

It's worse than Phil made it sound, but still an easy fix. I grab a replacement from my toolbox.

"I heard my dad talk about you before. You do all the maintenance in his apartments, right?"

"Yes, I do."

"Man, I can't imagine all the stuff you've had to fix."

I loosen the piece as Katy tells a story about her college roommate who tried to fix a garbage disposal with a butter knife and flooded their entire apartment.

"She called maintenance crying, and they were like, 'Ma'am, did you put a butter knife in the disposal?' And she was like, 'No.' But there was literally a butter knife sticking out of it, and Grace—that's my roommate—Grace was standing there like, 'I have no idea how that got there,' with her hand bleeding from where she cut herself trying to fish it out."

I pull the corroded piece free and replace it while she keeps talking.

"Anyway, so maintenance had to replace the whole disposal, and Grace had to pay for it, and she was so mad because she was like, 'Why didn't anyone tell me you're not supposed to put butter knives in garbage disposals,' and I was like, 'Grace, that's not really something people need to tell you,' but apparently it is because she also didn't know you're not supposed to put potato peels in there either."

I give the new connection one last turn while Katy shifts on the tub edge. Jesus Christ, I am so aware of her every movement. It's driving me crazy.

"Do you think there are people who are just naturally bad at knowing how things work? Like, some people are born understanding that you don't put butter knives in garbage disposals the same way you don't put your hand on a griddle, and some people are born not understanding that, and they just have to learn everything the hard way? I think Grace might be one of those people. Sweet girl, and I love her to death, but she once tried to microwave a metal spoon. She's a case study waiting to happen."

The wrench slips. My knuckles scrape the inside of the vanity cabinet hard enough to leave skin behind.

"Fuck," I whisper.

Blood wells up on my knuckles. Three small scrapes, but nothing serious. I reposition the wrench, finish tightening it, and check for drips.

Nothing. Done.

"Oh God, are you bleeding? Did I make you hurt yourself by talking too much? I totally made you hurt yourself. This is why people tell me to shut up. Some people word it differently, of course, like some say…”

"You didn't make me do anything."

"But you were listening to me ramble about Grace and butter knives instead of focusing on the pipe thing."

"Coupling."

"What?"

"It's called a coupling. Not a pipe thing."

She tosses her head back and laughs. "That is such a weird thing to call it. But still. You were listening to my Grace story instead of focusing on the coupling, and now you're bleeding."

"I'm not bleeding."

She hops off the bathtub and crouches next to me. Her shoulder is three inches from my bicep, and my heart immediately slams against my ribs. "You are definitely bleeding. Let me see."

"It's nothing."

"Let me see."