Page 30 of Error Handling

I felt so comfortable with him that I told him about my broken ovaries, going light on the details. He laughed and told me I was not broken. When I asked him how he knew, he simply said, “I just know.”

He smiled, shifted in his seat, and then I went on to chronicle my dad’s many girlfriends, pausing at Sherry, who sent herself to the ER for nearly poking out her eyeball with her pointy acrylic nails.

“I don’t know how women wear those,” I said. “They’re a health hazard.”

“They’d make it difficult to pick your nose.”

“Or wipe.”

“Unsanitary.”

“I’d have to boil those tips in alcohol every night,” I said.

We were discussing hot dogs as we pulled up to my curb.

“The best way to eat them is on a stick surrounded by fried cornbread,” Christopher says.

I shrug in response. “That doesn’t count.”

“Then, I suppose it would be roasted over a fire with chili sauce, sauteed onions, and shredded cheese.”

“Sauteed onions?”

“I can’t eat raw onions.”

“They give you bad breath,” we both say in unison.

My jaw drops.

“I always have mints on hand,” Christopher continues.

He did pop a mint in his mouth while we were waiting for Marco.

“I only use sugar-free mints though,” Christopher says.

“Because sugar breeds bad bacteria,” we say in unison again.

“I can’t believe this,” I say. “Someone understands me.”

We laugh together, but then Christopher’s expression drops. “Hey.” He peers over my shoulder toward the house. “Is there supposed to be water pouring from your front door?”

I furrow my brow at him.

“I think you have a problem,” he says.

“I can’t have another problem. I only do one problem a night.”

“Turn around.”

I oblige.

There’s a puddle in my front yard, fed by a stream that’s pouring through the crack underneath my front door. The puddle and the stream glint under the streetlights.

“This is not good,” I say.

“I think you have a broken pipe or something.”

“This isn’t good,” I repeat, a dozen decibels higher.