Saving Fish from Drowning - Heal Burma

SAVING FISH FROM DROWNING
pre-tarnished copper sink, a rubbed marble top that looked as if Ital­
ians had been kneading dough on it since the Renaissance. Then
there was the matter of the floor. No, she did not think the 1950s
linoleum floor was friendly and fun or full of interesting history. She
said it looked like “rivers of barf.” “I beg your pardon,” he had said.
“Barf? What sort of Americanism is that?” She went on to say she
wanted the floor to be limestone tiles embedded with tiny fossilized
sea creatures. He had joked, “Pray tell, what for? So they can mingle
with dropped fusilli in a sea of spilled pesto sauce?” It was the wrong
thing to say. Then again, everything was the wrong thing. With the
amount of money spent on the kitchen, they could have dined at
Chez Panisse every night for years. And in fact, they nearly did, since
the dear wife rarely cooked.
He imagined Marlena seeing his kitchen for the first time. “Charm­
ing,” she would no doubt utter, “quite charming.” She would run her
manicured fingers along the marble, wiggling her lovely arse up onto
the cool counter and lying down with a come-hither look. The re­
modeled kitchen might have some advantages. It had had them with
other women he had dated, though he had promptly discovered it
was not advisable to make love on a cool, narrow counter. Perhaps it
was best to imagine Marlena leaning against it, washing dishes, her
backside facing him. That was nice, very nice.
Despite what had happened the night before, she was still good for
sexual daydreams. His last girlfriend said it was abnormal and dis­
gusting that he thought about sex every hour and with every woman
he met. It must have been madness and too many martinis that led to
his confessing that. He wouldn’t make that mistake with Marlena.
No relationship needed to be that honest. Keep some of the mystery,
better for romance that way. At least the divinely mature Marlena
would have no issues about popping out more babies. Talk of babies
killed the lovey-dovey factor. Yet with the younger lady friends, the
need to replicate themselves seemed to raise its ugly head at in­
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