Page 29 of Connectio

George bends down, reaches under the sink, and the fountain turns to a trickle.

“Oh, thank goodness.” I sigh, prop myself against the sink, and wipe my eyes with the backs of my hands, droplets of water falling from my nose, ears, chin, and arms.

Oliver sheepishly hands me a roll of paper towel, and I have the overwhelming urge to crack him over the head with it, especially when he moves to the front of the room and says, “Okay, kids. It’s stopped raining inside, so you can take a seat back on the mat, please.” He then picks up the multiplication chart and starts next session’s lesson as if nothing happened, as if I’m not standing here soaking wet with a mess to clean and a tap to fix. Is he kidding me?

George stands up. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” I offer him some paper towels. “But the tap has been leaking for a couple of weeks now—”

A thunder rumbles from the sinkhole.

George steps back then looks at my tummy as if it’s about to explode. “I hope that was your stomach.”

I step back too. “Normally, it would be.”

“It might be worth turning the water mains off to this building.” He wipes his face then scrunches up his piece of paper towel and tosses it into the bin. “I’ll go do that now.”

“Thanks, George. You’re a lifesaver.”

He looks at Oliver then at me. “You gonna be okay?”

I scoff then peel my blouse from my chest and flap it. “Yeah, but I might need to go stand in the sun for a bit.”

He chuckles, squeezes my shoulder, and then leaves.

Not one to stand around and do nothing, I head to the storeroom and return with a bucket, mop, and some cloths and begin mopping the floor, towelling the edge of the carpet and wiping down the sink, tables, and windows. It takes me a while, because water reached farther than I realised, and when everything is dry—sans me—and safe from hazards, I make my way outside to dry off a bit, still flapping my shirt when I turn the corner and slam into a wall.

A man wall.

A big, hard, familiar man wall.

“Will?” I question, stepping back, perplexed.

“Damn! If it isn’t a wet Labia.”