Page 15 of Milky

From behind silver rimmed glasses, he peers between us, brows dipping. “Come again?

I clear my throat, finding courage to speak. I’ll do anything to help Herb. “He just… his little motor stopped. He was still plugged in, the rest of our powered items still worked, he just… he stopped.”

The man glances at Chip and finally takes Herb in his arms, leaving the blanket behind. “Why is the vacuum wrapped in a blanket?” he asks, judgment thick in his tone.

This is why Herb and I are night cleaners. Because no one is around. We tried daytime cleaning for a while, but as soon as I showed Herb any affection, I was judged. This guy is reminding me of the cruel, judgemental world. I narrow my eyes, but remind myself we’re here to save Herb.

“So he didn’t get cold,” I draw out slowly. “Anyway, he just stopped working.” I wring my hands together nervously as Chip drapes his arm along the back of my shoulders. “Can you save him?”

The man, who I notice now is wearing a nametag that says MILCH. I wag a finger at him, bouncing on my toes. “This is fate! You’re going to save Herb, I just know it!”

I turn to Chip, taking his Sonic t-shirt between my fists as I pull him to me. “Milch is German for milk! It’s a sign!” I rock to my toes and seal my lips to his, celebrating the good news. When our kiss breaks, Milch looks more confused and irritable than before.

“Who is Herb?” he asks, dry and unenthused. He’s definitely not doing justice to the name Milch, but he gets a pass because he may save our guy.

I nod toward the Wet/Dry shop vac. “Him.”

Milch looks at the vacuum, just now seeing for the first time the heart doodles in silver glitter pen and the name HERB scrawled across his lid. His eyes come to mine, veer to Chips, then back to Herb.

“Okay, so this vac turned off, that’s what happened?” he asks, sighing.

Chip nods. “Yeah, he turned off but was plugged in and… that’s all we know.”

I loop my arms around his waist, and take comfort in the way he returns his arm around me, hugging me to him.

“I’ll have to open it up and check the filters first, then the tanks, and onto the motor, okay?” he says, laying out his plans specifically. I like that– I like when doctors tell you exactly what they’re doing in your loved ones so you aren’t left to wonder. Or worse, Google.

“Okay,” I nod, my heart racing with fear.

I know what you’re thinking. Why can’t I just buy a new shop vac if Herb doesn’t make it, right? Because that’s not how it works with attachment and love, that’s why. I can go buy some ridiculous Dyson but he won’t understand me. He won’t know how to suck me, please me, be there for me, not the way Herb does.

For me, it’s Herb Hoover or bust.

Milch slips into some leather gloves, and I don’t press my luck but I hope those have been sanitized since his last client. He drags his fingers along the rim, finding the three metal clips that keep Herb’s head on. I take his head off a few times a day to empty and clean his tanks, which I liken to washing my lover’s underwear or changing his sheets. It’s all part of the love and relationship we’re in.

Setting the body aside, Milch pulls the filter from the dry vac side, and holds it up to the light. “Clean. Very, very clean.” Hereplaces the filter and gives us a nod of approval. But of course I keep my Herbie clean, I’m a good lover.

Next he plucks the wet filter out, which is less clean but still pretty clean. After all, I washed the filter yesterday before all of our fun tonight. Milch’s eyes narrow and before we can stop him, he brings the filter to his nose and takes a long inhale.

“Is that–” he drops the filter to the counter, drops of white splashing his counter. I don’t know if it’s cum or milk, but either way, I pull my handkerchief from my pocket and swipe over it.

Milch looks between us, mouth open.

“Don’t judge the contents of the filter, just fix him,” Chip grits, his anger over Herb’s well-being making me suddenly horny amidst the chaos. I stay focused on Herb, on healing him. Milch can judge all he wants. I don’t care.

Wiping his hands on a shop towel, Milch replaces the filter and looks into the tank. He looks up at us. “What’s in here?” He studies the tank as he moves it in his hand, making the contents slosh.

“Why don’t you taste it and find out,” I grit out, angry that he’s more focused on our lifestyle than our guy. “Herb needs you to fix him, Milch. Can you fix him or are you bad at your job?”

His spine straightens, as if the challenge is enough to put our lifestyle out of his mind, in order to prove us wrong. Whatever it takes, I’ll do it.

With a saucy look, Milch takes Herb through the purple curtain, the sound of a sink turning on hitting our ears. When he returns, he rests Herb on the counter, reaching for his screwdriver.

“I’ll need to take the motor out and take it apart. It’s going to be a few hours. You should come back.”

We stay put.

Milch narrows his eyes. “I don’t work with an audience.”

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