He retrieved his plunger from the hall closet. It was a clean, pristine, new plunger. It had never touched a toilet. In Leo’s mind, that made it a general-purpose water-unclogging device. A sink plunger. Why not? Water is water.

On the third pump, there was a deep, wet BOOM from the pipes. The water in the left basin—the one without the disposal—began to churn like a witch’s cauldron. Then, with a soggy pop , it erupted. A geyser of grey, onion-scented water shot three feet into the air, directly into Leo’s open mouth.

Maya smiled. “That’s for date number three.”

As Leo wiped down the counter, Maya leaned against the fridge. “So,” she said, “to answer your earlier question: yes, you can plunge a sink. But you have to do it right .”

She didn’t laugh. She just sighed, grabbed her keys, and said, “That’s a toilet plunger, Leo. It creates a seal for a flat hole. A sink has a cross. You need a cup plunger with a flap. Also… you don’t plunge a sink like a toilet. You block the overflow vent first.”

It was a Tuesday night, and Leo was pretty sure he had just committed a crime against plumbing.