She looked at the white-and-gray metal box with the big round porthole. Her arms were crossed and her brow was knitted.
He glanced at her sideways, a small curl of a smile hiding in the corner of his mouth, underneath the full beard she wished he would shave off.
"You know, it isn't going to explode, love," he said mildly.
He saw her already straight back straighten even further, like his words had zapped her with electricity. She always stood so tall and regal. Others would say -- and, in fact, had said to his face -- that she looked like a stiff, severe, humorless and cold. He didn't mind them. If she was cold -- and he doubted that she really was cold underneath the surface -- he could warm her up.
Glancing right back at him, she pulled her arms tighter. She didn't like when he called her that. She didn't like that furtive smile. She had the awful, sour feeling in her chest that he was making fun of her -- had had that feeling ever since they had first met, barely two months ago, and then met again only twice (with her great-aunt and uncle in attendance both times, much to her mortification) before they had suddenly stood together at an altar, facing one another and vowing to go through life together until death would them part, in sickness or in health.
The acquisition of newfangled household machines didn't rightfully count as a 'sickness', she had to admit, but it nevertheless felt like her husband was introducing an alien element to the fragile ecosystem of her home -- just like a virus invading a body.
This, she would only ponder in the absolute privacy of her head in the middle of the night when she was awake while her husband snored in the other bed, was
not
the type of invasion she had anticipated in a marriage. Having been brought up on a farm, she knew all about invasion and penetration... of several different species of mammal, anyway.
"I know that," she eventually replied with pursed lips and her voice raised just a notch to be heard. "Although it is... disconcertingly loud."
She machine chose this very moment to give a series of clicks and grunts, then come to a rumbling, shuddering halt, only to start up again, visibly spinning the load of soapy water and clothing into the other direction.
It was said that all households needed one of these now. Anything else was, apparently, unpatriotic.
She did not fear for the nation as much as she did for her and her husband's clothes. And the electricity and water bill. And the washing room and the rest of the apartment. And possibly the entire block.
"That is normal, for now," he answered, nodding. "I am sure the developers are already working on a solution for that issue. Give it a couple of years and they will create washing machines that are barely louder than a whisper."
For now, he thought, this loud monster of a machine would serve well to make their lives easier. For one, it would ingratiate his wife with the neighbors -- good patriots, all of them, and wary of the farmer woman from the backlands who didn't do small talk and always kept the curtains closed. Secondly, it would save his wife's hands from being scrubbed raw and dried from the lye soap and her back and shoulders from hunching and aching. Thirdly, it would free up some time. Not a lot -- their household only consisted of two people for now, and both of them were already frugal with their clothes -- but every second won was a victory to him.
She nodded. What else could she do but believe his words? He was the one with the technical knowledge. It was his job and his vocation.
If only he would take a little time out of his busy days to touch something other than... connectors and... and valves and cables and suchlike.
She cleared her throat that had gone a little tight with the prim thought.
"Until then, rest assured that this little gadget will do its job, without blowing up. After all, I connected it personally for you." He smiled a full smile at her. The skin around his eyes crinkled. "Do you trust me, love?"
He had asked her that question often. So far, she hadn't answered with words. He was a patient man.
It was obvious to her that he was not exclusively talking about handling electrical household appliances at this point. That was another one of his habits, just like that hidden smile. He talked about one thing but simultaneously meant another.
And the other thing was usually emotional. Or sexual. Or both. In any case, more important than the original topic, at least to her. It unnerved her. She didn't know what to say but also knew that giving no answer was also inevitably an answer in its own right.
He huffed a laugh through his nose when she stood like a deer in headlights and didn't reply, then reached out to touch and gently tug her sleeve-covered elbow. "Come on. I'll introduce you."
They stepped across the washing room and toward the rumbling machine that sat snug between the two shelves which held all of her washing powders, starches and fat bars of soap, as well as most other cleaning implements and agents in the apartment. She faintly wondered whether it was dangerous now to keep these chemicals to close to the washing machine, then chided herself. She knew that electricity didn't work that way -- even though her great-aunt insisted it was basically the devil's magic -- and, first and foremost, that her husband wouldn't leave these things standing there if it was unsafe to do so.
"I have directly connected the machine to the electrical grid, because there isn't a socket in this room. Can you see the cord, there?" He pointed to the corner of the ceiling. There was a new hole in the drywall.
She nodded and debated whether she should pull her elbow from his hold. His hands were large.
"That's how the machine gets its juice. If you want to switch it completely off, you will have to do so through the fuse box. I'll show you how to do that in a minute. Now, the water supply and drain is in the back. We'll have to open and close the supply there manually each time and check the drain from time to time, so..." He reached down to his belt and produced a silver flashlight, clicking it on and handing it to her. "Have a look."
She took the torch, surprisingly heavy and solid, and frowned. "Have a look where?"
He bit back a noise when she wrapped in her slender fingers around that flashlight. He flicked his chin and cleared his throat which was suddenly a little tighter than before.
"The back of the machine. Shine the light into the gap at the wall and look down."
She assessed the situation. The shelves to the right and the left were heavy, solid wood. The one on the left was even screwed to the wall, so there was very little chance of pulling any of them back and approaching from the side.
The only way to look behind the washing machine was to bend over it. Upper body flat across the top. Her rear hanging over the side.
Like being bent over a barrel.
Realizing this, she finally pulled her elbow from his big hand. "Very well," she said curtly, angry at him for goading her, angry at herself for taking his bait so easily, and even angry at this stupid, loud, expensive machine that had offered him another opportunity to be by himself and play with
valves and suchlike
for the entire Saturday morning.
Leaning over and lowering herself on top of the washing machine, she felt almost like she had mounted a living beast. One who was heavier and bigger than she. The machine rumbled and bucked rhythmically underneath her, the vibrations tickling in her belly. She tried to ignore it, stood on her tiptoes to come all the way forward and shone the flashlight into the gap. It was generous, almost two hands width of space to accommodate the water hoses leading to a bibcock and down into a funneled draining hole in the floor, and to keep the machine from banging against the wall.
"Okay. I see the water hoses. There are two," she said. "And there is the-"
