'Royal Flush' by C.G. Thompson

A toilet was not supposed to be in the side yard. Or in any part of the yard. Any self-respecting commode would be inside.

This one had situated itself between her Japanese maple and garden hose, its seat up, yawning.

The nerve.

Her hands shook unexpectedly as she edged down the brick steps to study it.

She glanced around, knowing Duncan must be nearby. Who else would use a home appliance -- no, a plumbing fixture -- as a calling card?

He'd explained the difference while unclogging the finicky toilet in her first apartment years ago. "You don't plug it in or turn it on."

He'd driven ponding roads at 1 a.m. to help her. He stood and pressed the handle with authority. "Madam, I present the royal flush from the porcelain throne. I also give you this scepter," handing her his plumber's helper.

"A treasure." She'd laughed but kept it through ten years of various jobs, apartments, and now a home.

Duncan hadn't fared as well. Senior year of college, he'd been injured in a car accident then become addicted to opioids. Ashamed, he'd broken off contact. "A story for the crapper," he'd judged.

"I'm not going to start asking you for money," he texted, attempting a final joke: "You won't be privy to my problems."

"In loo of that, let's stay in touch," she'd tried

Instead he changed his phone number, moved, disappeared.

Now a toilet faced her boldly, making some kind of point.

A car door slammed in the summer heat.

Looking much the same as when she last saw him, Duncan stood at the foot of her driveway. She froze, too happy to speak.

"I've heard of toilets running ..." he called.