by Sarah Grey
This is his element: water.
Holloway has come to repair the Goodwins' washer. It chokes and sputters and
burps suds across the laundry room floor.
Mrs. Goodwin apologizes for the mess, for the heat, for the mangy cat that glares
from the shelves above. She offers him fresh iced tea. He accepts and hikes his
jeans up, for her sake.
When she returns with the full glass, the floor is clean and dry, and the washer
hums and churns like a hive of honeybees in spring.
Her eyes widen; her lipsticked mouth falls open in surprise. She tips him
generously, and asks him if he can repair the air conditioner, too.
He cannot, he tells her. He blames it on his education, but HVAC is for the gods of
"Oh," she says. "That's a pity. I haven't been able to get ahold of anyone to fix it."
This is his realm: from Oakview Avenue south to Jones Road, between 18th Street
Within these lands, he is every plumber in the directory; he is all search results for
toilet repair and leaking faucet. He is the alpha and omega of pipes, a small god of
He takes pride in his realm. Within it, the water is clean, and the elements are in