THE DEEP END

by Cormac Foster Morrison

"We're suburban too; we're just swimming at the deep end of the pool."

"Well shit, honey, I know that."

And so she looks at me then like the peeling paint shouldn't matter so much; or the fucking dandelions popping up like Charlie in 'Nam. Why do I even KNOW what a dandelion looks like? I'm the city kid. Who is this person staring back at me from the mirror--with speckles of white in his hair from painting the kitchen ceiling after yet another tub debacle upstairs (for future reference, you wanna go with ROTO-Rooter, not MR. Rooter--Roto-Rooter cleans your pipes, Mr. Rooter is...what, the high school shop teacher who's missing a couple of fingers from the band saw, and with an unhealthy interest in the Captain of the Cheerleading Team's birdhouse, and the type of guy that twists the ancient pipes in this old house a little too much and then bolts out the backdoor when the brown tub water bursts through the kitchen ceiling on Memorial Day weekend. Note to self...)

Now she's taking my head in her hands, not minding the two-day stubble, and looking up at me with those eyes, squinting and pursing her lips, knowing what I'm thinking, knowing about how guilty I feel that it was all my idea, this house, knowing I know how much she loved New York, and in ways that I, the city kid, could never appreciate for having grown up too close to it, and how I made her come here, to this milquetoast paradise; this chlorinated wilderness of preconceived notions, extra-value meals and simmering unfulfilled lusts for life lying decomposing in the sunshine.

"If you kiss me enough maybe we won't have to worry about the turds in the pool--especially in the deep end."

And so she did, and down we went. This water is warm, but it sure is deep.