Mermaid Fillet

       Plumber Michel Pedersen, or simply Mickey, qualification level 3, woke up in a splendid mood, and nothing could bring him down—not the lack of sleep, not the work order handed to him right at the office door, nor the baffling jokes from his colleagues about future misfortunes as he headed to the job site. They were just jealous. They’d been lazing in front of the telly yesterday, while he’d gone for a barbecue with beer and friends. Old mates had brought new ones, and as a result, Mickey had met a cracking girl named Natalie. She liked beer, loved fishing, was lively, and had plenty to hold onto. And the job was a breeze—flushing out the heat exchanger in the basement of a block of flats, a routine task. In the basement, Mickey flicked the switch, turned around… and froze. Perched on the heat exchanger’s frame was a naked girl with a rusty fish tail below the waist. Glancing briefly at the plumber, the girl continued calmly combing her blonde mane. Suspicion crept into Mickey’s mind: was this a setup by his colleagues? Had they been sniggering at him for nothing this morning? Probably roped in some tart to pose, and now they’d have a laugh at him falling for this… what was it called… that thing they’d studied in school, about a fairy lass sitting on a rock and luring mariners… Ah, a mermaid. “A mermaid sitting on a pipe.” Nice try, but he wasn’t falling for it. Mickey took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself and spoke politely and without swearing, as only he in their repair firm could: “Miss, could you shift yourself a bit? I need to get to the valve.” The apparition froze. “Are you talking to me?” she asked. “Well, is there anyone else here?” The girl’s eyes widened. “Oh, the wrong side!” she suddenly squealed and tried to cover herself with her arms and hair. “Oh, blimey, he can see me!” On that last ear-splitting note, she jumped and dived into the pipe—straight through the metal. “Bloody hell,” Mickey muttered, slipping into plumbers’ lingo. What on earth was that? Had yesterday’s beer been spiked with aquavit? Maybe the salami in the sandwiches had gone off? Mickey swore long and passionately. Along the way, he realised he’d put his overalls on inside out from lack of sleep. But work wasn’t a mermaid—it wouldn’t vanish on its own. After an honest day’s work, basking in the late sun, Mickey relaxed and decided against seeing a psychiatrist. He blamed it all on the combination of beer, salami, heat, and the shapely Nataly. And he resolved not to drink anything stronger than cola when he went to the cinema with his new flame on Thursday. They had a lovely time. After the film’s monsters, the fish tail faded from memory entirely. And the following Saturday, Nataly agreed to come over and bake a fish pie. Mickey stocked up on wine and fixed the old stereo. The Alsace winemakers didn’t disappoint, and Modern Talking hit the spot—might as well hop in the shower together. But Natalie slammed the bathroom door in his face. Mickey warned her the shower had been acting up lately—sometimes humming, sometimes dousing you in icy water—and prepared to wait. Right, she turned the tap on, rustling about… Bang—the door flew open and sent Mickey sprawling onto the lino. Natalie, mostly dressed, bolted for the front door. Through the ringing in his ears from the impact, Mickey caught her furious shrieks: “Oh, sure, you said there was no one else, and here you’ve got birds coming out of your ears! You’re all the same, you lot! Cinema, my arse, fishing!” “What birds? What are you on about? There’s literally no one!” “Oh, really? Then whose dyed hair’s clogging the drain?” A well-aimed handbag strike left Mickey paralysed, and he stood there as the door slammed shut. He must’ve zoned out for a minute before rushing to the bathroom. The drain was empty, swear to God. He walked out into the hallway, made a final self-diagnosis—and turned his T-shirt inside out. Peeked into the bathroom again. Bloody hell. There she was, the minx, perched on the edge of the tub, combing her hair back into a massive mane. “Oops,” squeaked the mermaid as the plumber’s fingers closed around her wrist. “Oops? That’s it?” he bellowed, then quickly lowered his voice—just in case she took offence and bit him. “What did I ever do to you, you fairy-tale freak? Why’d you have to ruin my love life?” Pale green lashes fluttered, her eyes darted, and her voice trembled pitifully: “N-no-no, I didn’t ruin it, I did the opposite! And you did the opposite for me, very much so… When I found out you’d got a girlfriend, I nipped through the pipes to have a listen, and she was slagging you off to her mum. I had to save you! She wanted to turn you into a proper bloke—make you quit plumbing for business. And I’d have missed you… Oops. Fine, I’ll admit it—I did it for myself. Didn’t want you leaving the job. I just love watching you work.” Once again, Mickey was lost for words. “So, will they grow back?” he nodded at her comb after a minute. Had to say something while his brain was rebooting. “Nope,” sighed the mermaid. “But if I chucked out everything that falls out, I’d be bald as a coot. What can you do? Your pipes have filthy water. Hair’s falling out, splitting…” “I want a woman,” Mickey blurted out, surprising even himself. Probably the swaying assets in front of him had an effect. “But you’ve got a tail. And you’ve scared off all the babes for me.” “Just the one,” the mermaid pouted her pale green lips. “And don’t insult my tail, or I’ll tickle you to death.” “To death?” Mickey scoffed. “Yeah, right. Prove it.” A chubby finger with a chipped green nail slid under his T-shirt, darting about like a mouse. “Well?” Mickey asked triumphantly. “I’ve not been ticklish since I was a kid.” The mermaid huffed indignantly and went at it with both hands. Then even used the ends of her hair like a brush. The bloke tuned into the sensations. “Actually, not bad,” he finally giggled. “Proper relaxing. Fancy popping round sometime for another go? By the way, what’s your name?” “We’re named after our hair colour. Each mermaid’s is unique. I’m Dirty-Straw-Green!” He whistled. “Bit of a mouthful, innit? I mean, I’m Michel Fredrik August Pedersen, but my mates call me Mickey.” “Oh, I dunno,” the mermaid fidgeted on the edge of the tub. “You think of one.” Hard to think straight with fruity distractions swaying right under your nose, teasing you. “Well, like those apples… Granny Smith!” he surrendered to his imagination. “Or just Smith—you’re hardly a granny yet!” The mermaid wiggled her tail in delight, making the aforementioned “fruits” sway even more, and grabbed him by the sides. The next day, Mickey was half an hour late to the office and had put his T-shirt on backwards from lack of sleep. His colleagues roared with laughter and reminded him it wasn’t even his shift. So Mickey headed home with great enthusiasm, only stopping at the corner shop for some strengthening shampoo for long hair.