The day the drain won

Saturday was supposed to be for the banya and then nothing in particular. Instead the bathroom drain decided it had taken enough and stopped accepting water. I poured what I had under the sink at it, waited, tried again. The water sulked in a gray ring around the plughole. I am not a plumber. I know this about myself.

Before I could deal with that properly I still had to go to Osh bazaar for the week’s food. I came back with bags that cut into my fingers and climbed the four flights with no lift, stopping on the second landing to reset my grip. A neighbor passed me going down and nodded at the bags the way people nod at weather. Inside, I left everything on the floor and went back to the drain, which had not improved in my absence.

The laundry from Thursday hung in the main room and refused to dry. The air has been damp for days, the kind that makes cotton stay cool and faintly sour. I moved the chairs to make a second line near the window and gained almost nothing. While I was doing that the bulb in the hallway blew, a small cheap pop, right as I was carrying a basin of grey water toward the kitchen. Both hands full, sudden dark in the corridor, the smell of wet cloth everywhere.

I got the drain clear enough by late afternoon with a borrowed tool and language I will not repeat here. The bags got unpacked. The bulb stayed dark because I had no spare and the shop was already closed. I made tea at the samovar corner and drank it standing up. The day had the texture of work without any of the satisfaction. I went to bed with the laundry still damp and the hall still black. That was the win the drain took home.