Page 5 of Silver Linings

three

. . .

I’m turning onto the corner of my block when I notice the fire hydrant in front of my building has exploded.

Exploded . Who even knew that was possible?

Water gushes from every direction in a deluge so fierce, it’s flooding the storm drains and rapidly filling the streets.

Neighbors watch from their windows; kids try to play in it while their guardians attempt to keep them from the torrential spray.

At the helm of all the chaos, Tony is on the phone, screaming out our cross streets to first responders.

I amble closer to the building while skirting away from rising tides.

“Tony!” I wave him down. “What happened?”

“Couple of teens thought it would be fun to try and do kick flips off the hydrant.” He scratches at the back of his neck, visibly stressed.

“You’re telling me that this, ” I point to the river running down the street, “isn’t for everyone to quench their undeniable thirst for you?”

That earns me a half chuckle. I’m about to say something else to try and ease his mind when the wailing of sirens careens towards us, growing louder with every second.

The firetruck pulls up just outside of the building, and the firemen from Ladder 18 scramble out into action. One of them hustles over to speak to Tony, and just as I’m about to get out of the way and head inside, I get a glimpse of someone familiar. I do a double take, then a third.

Oh my God.

He’s here. The one that got away .

And apparently, he’s a firefighter. He definitely has the frame for it—all muscle and thick corded forearms that would even make a nun consider damnation.

Shit . Am I drooling again?

I’m definitely being a creep, just standing here watching him assess the situation with his squad, but I can’t seem to look away. What are the odds he’d be here?

I get lost in my thoughts, and I startle when I notice he’s starting to take off his shirt.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’ve registered that this is odd behavior for a fireman.

But he’s standing there, hedging closer to the hydrant in his uniform, sans shirt, suspenders bracketing his shoulders straining to hold up his soaked pants, and I can’t find it in me to care that this is really bizarre.

The sight of him underneath the spray is tantalizing to say the least. This man has been sculpted by Michelangelo himself, and he’s standing under that rainfall like he is Neptune at the Trevi fountain.

I’m about to toss a quarter into the flooded street and make a wish for him.

But oh no, my wish is already coming true. As bizarre as his mini strip tease is, I can see every drop of water sluicing a path between his well-defined abs, cutting down and dripping below the waist of his bunker pants.

I am in a daze. A nuclear bomb could not tear my gaze away.

He slowly takes the right suspender in his hand and lowers it over his shoulder.

Drip. I don’t know what is warranting the free peep show, but beggars can’t be choosers, and I am most certainly begging.

He reaches for the left suspender and starts to pull it down over his shoulder.

Drip. His pants start to fall from the weight, no longer held up by his shoulders.

The vee at his waist becomes more and more narrow with each second of descent.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

I startle awake. You have got to be kidding me. The single best dream of my life, and I had to wake up right before I got to see the fireman’s hose?

Drip .

Am I still dreaming? I reach up to my forehead, and my hand comes away wet.

What the hell is that? It’s still dark out, and my eyes are bleary from sleep, making it impossible to see anything. I reach over to turn on my bedside lamp as another drop of liquid hits the side of my face. I settle on my back, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

Drip. Drip. Drip .

The dripping has increased to a steady stream when I notice my pillow is soaked. Has this been happening all night? I must have been sleeping off to the other side of the pillow, rolled over during my dream, and woke up when the water started pelting my face.

I groan, knowing I’ll have to get maintenance involved. I haven’t met the new guy yet, but the building manager sent an email out to all the tenants last week giving us the name, H. Wells, and contact info for work order requests.

I sit up and look for my phone so I can get in contact with him.

I’m riffling around under my dry pillows when I hear the distinct sound of creaking right above my head.

Everything happens in slow motion. I look toward the ceiling and see the bubble has swelled to a staggering degree. I have no time to process that I should really, really move right about now when the bubble ruptures from the pressure, and a deluge of liquid comes crashing down over my head.

I sit frozen in a puddle of regret and what I hope to fuck is water.

Turning around, I frantically shove my hands under pillows to find my phone wedged between the two largest at the back, grateful for their thick stuffing protecting it from getting waterboarded.

I haul myself out of bed and pad over to my bathroom to grab every towel I own and start cleaning up.

I’m stamping the bed, trying to absorb the liquid before it seeps too far into my mattress, and eventually just leave them in a heap under the ceiling damage while I look for something to collect the still-falling water.

It’s just after six in the morning now, and I know Tony will be downstairs already, so I walk into my bathroom to grab my robe, slip my arms in, and tie it at my waist. At the front door, I slide my feet into a pair of slippers, and step out into the hallway.

It isn’t until I’m almost at the ground floor that I realize my soaked pajamas are starting to seep through my thin robe.

Hopefully, since it’s still early, no one will be around to witness this.

The elevator dings open, and I haven’t even fully stepped out before I hear?—

“God only knows what kind of sexual deviance you’ve been up to all night to look like a sodden street walker at half past six in the morning.

” Mrs. Evans’ voice is laced with disdain.

It’s been years since she moved into the building, and she still hates me with the fire of a thousand suns.

I have never been able to figure out why.

To be fair, she hates pretty much everyone, so I try not to take it personally.

“Just some light bondage, a flogger or two, nothing too wild. It was a very casual evening.” I shrug past her. She stomps off, unamused, toward the elevator in a cloud of Shalimar that has me holding my breath.

“Antagonizing Mrs. Evans this early in the morning? You’re brave, kid.”

“Tony…” I draw out his name in a sickly sweet tone. “Look at me. Do I look like I want to be antagonized this morning? Mother Gothel over there is always the one to start it.”

“Okay, okay. But,” he clears his throat, “she’s not exactly wrong. Why do you look like 7B’s Pomeranian after it’s been caught in the rain?”

“It would seem that cruel bitch fate has decided today was to be my day of reckoning.”

“Less cryptic, doll.”

“Water damage. I woke up from the best dream of my life to water flooding down from the ceiling in a way that felt borderline apocalyptic.” Now I’m thinking about the dream again, the sculpted abs, the water slicing its way down each ridge of abdomen, green eyes the color of?—

“Pine trees?” Confusion laces Tony’s voice.

“Never mind. I want to go shower, but when the new maintenance guy gets in today, can you send him up? I’ll be home for a while before work.”

“Sure thing. I’ll fill out the request for you. He should be here around eight.”

I quickly thank him before making my way back onto the elevator to the pond of doom residing on my bed.

Around a half hour later, I’m still in the shower when there’s a loud rap on my front door.

I thought I had more time. I wasn’t expecting the maintenance man until closer to eight, and a glance at my phone sitting on the bathroom sink tells me it’s only a quarter past seven in the morning.

I scramble to finish rinsing the conditioner out of my hair, running my hands through my pale blonde strands to make sure I don’t leave any residue behind.

I’m twisting the excess water out of my hair when I hear another, much louder, knock on the door.

“I’ll be there in a minute!” I shuffle around my bathroom floor, looking for my robe that has mysteriously disappeared.

I can’t possibly answer the door in just a towel and meet the new guy half-naked. That would not make a good first impression, and I need to make a good impression.

The thing about maintenance technicians is, you really, really want to get on their good side.

They can make or break if you have an easy time living in your building.

They are the one lone soldier you have between yourself and any issue that comes your way.

If they don’t like you, you are fucked in any non-emergency situation.

Leaky faucet? It’ll get fixed in three to six months.

A light’s gone out in the fixture you can’t reach on the ceiling?

I hope you enjoy living in darkness. Forever.

They are season six, episode nine, Jon Snow during the Battle of the Bastards scene standing down an army horde of rats waiting to eat your face off in the middle of the night. That’s not dramatic, it’s just a fact. Maintenance techs are the end all, be all of easy living.

The knocking has progressed to a curt bang, I have not found my robe, and I am out of time.

I jog over to the door, water dripping from my hair down onto my neck as I clutch my towel to my chest. I rip open the door before he can knock again, or worse—leave.

“I’m so sor–” All the words fly out of my mouth as I stare up, mouth gaping like a fish at the one that got away .