My friend Thomas (A fantasy story)

Even as a little girl, she liked to give names to things – not just her dolls, stuffed animals and teddy bears. As soon as she liked something, she thought it was alive. Her parents laughed at her and her older sister teased her.

Her childhood world was populated by countless interesting characters, and they all had names. Her tricycle had one, as did her little sand bucket, her Disney bedside lamp and, of course, her first school bag. She firmly believed that there was something like a soul, or perhaps a spirit, in all the things around her.

Years later, as a schoolgirl, she would clap her hands in delight when she saw raindrops falling into a puddle. She thought the tiny raindrops were like little dancing creatures. The adults would smile benevolently and say: 'The child is a little dreamer.' At school she did not give up her special way of seeing things, she just stopped talking about it. The smile, which had been amusing at first, had given way to a certain seriousness. School was a serious matter and she was 'no longer a little girl'.

Later, when first dates became important, she forgot a lot and only gave names to the most precious things in her life. Her first second-hand car, for example, had a name, and it was only thanks to this fact and the friendship she developed with the car that it never let her down and lasted as long as pessimistic friends had predicted. That, at least, was the driver's certainty, which she hardly admitted to herself.

At the age of twenty-five, against her parents' wishes, she left home to take a job and live in another city. Her mother had cried, predicted the worst and alternated between flattery and insults. 'You're incapable of getting your life together', or: 'You're all we have left', alternated incessantly and didn't even stop when the young woman closed the boot of her car and, after a fierce motherly embrace, started the car to start a life of her own.

The flat was small, old and rather cramped. The building was in need of renovation, especially the plumbing, but the rent was pleasantly low and the area was not bad. She hadn't made any friends yet, but she didn't mind. It was fun to prepare, decorate and make this palace of self-determined living her own. The boiler in the bathroom was an ancient monster that, as the landlord apologetically said, 'wouldn't work unless you talked it into it'. She had laughed at his words because it shouldn't break down, she thought to herself.

And indeed, the old thing, with its shabby enamel coating, reluctantly managed to produce a small blue flame to start the water-heating process. She had to turn the ignition knob – beyond a certain pressure point – which then created a spark that ignited the small amount of escaping gas. This was more theoretical than anything else, however, as it usually took at least twenty ignitions before a flame would appear, which would also go out immediately if she switched to normal operation too quickly. It was not uncommon for the young woman to have to do without a bath or brush her teeth with hot water from the coffee machine. When the water heater did start, it would sometimes stop working in the middle of washing her hair, resulting in an unpleasant splash of cold water.

One evening, standing in the bathroom looking at the huge enamel monstrosity, she noticed that the front of the boiler looked like a face. The opening through which the blue flame flickered and sometimes hissed could be an open mouth, the round control knob a nose and the company logo in the top right-hand corner a closed eye. The large dark spot where the enamel had chipped off, opposite the logo, looked like an open eye. She laughed and said: 'You're cheeky, aren't you? You wink at me.'

Then she noticed the resemblance to 'Thomas', a porcelain clown that stood in the living room display case, winking at everyone with a tragicomic expression on his face until he finally broke. She had called him 'Thomas' because he had a fancy-looking silver sticker on his left knee with that name on it – it was probably the manufacturer's, but she thought it suited him.

She was lucky that evening, because Thomas, the boiler, agreed to start after only ten attempts, and didn't break down in the middle of the bath, but just after. The next morning the young woman said: 'Thomas, you're being nice this morning, aren't you? I'll be late.' And Thomas was nice, which meant he only needed about five tries to get started.

Over the next few weeks, she fell back into her childhood habits, talking to the water heater as if it were alive. She talked about work, told him about her problems or the many little things that happened in her daily life when she went to the bathroom. Thomas, on the other hand, hardly had any breakdowns anymore. In fact, it happened more and more often that she didn't have to relight the stove when she got home because the flame was still burning. Without thinking, she patted the smooth, enamelled skin of the boiler and said: 'Good boy! I know I can rely on you', and there is no greater kindness than someone being kind to you.

She got into the habit of looking in on Thomas when she came home from work and wishing him a good evening. In the mornings she would take her coffee cup and sandwich into his room and chat to him while she ate. The bathroom was always warm, thanks to her flashing boyfriend, who, incidentally, no longer had any breakdowns. Apart from a few mornings when she was late and didn't stay long in the bath, which meant that Thomas was just as unfriendly as he had been at the beginning, everything was very harmonious.

At work, she began telling a colleague, with whom she had more contact, about Thomas. The other woman had asked if there was someone in her life, and the young woman had spontaneously replied: 'Yes, Thomas', and smiled. He waited for her, surrounded her with warmth and was always there for her. Her colleague said she liked that and told her about her boyfriend, who was unfortunately very different and preferred to hang out with his buddies.

When the young woman got home that evening, she first said hello to Thomas, then made herself a small supper, which she ate in the bathroom, as she had been doing lately. Thomas's little blue flame burned steadily and reassuringly, so they both watched a film on the television. She had placed the small device in the bath so that she could talk to Thomas as she watched – the main pleasure of a good film was the conversation it provoked. When the programme was over and the big old tub had been wiped dry, the woman brought in her bedclothes and spread them out in the tub. It was soothing to hear the constant hum of the flame; it was Thomas's way of whispering her to sleep.

She spent most of her first holiday in the bathroom; she and Thomas had a lot of fun together. The rest of the flat was far away, the small living room gathering dust. The tiny kitchenette was rarely used because preparing a hot meal prevented her from being with Thomas. The lack of space in the bathroom made it impossible to set up a hotplate, so the young woman had to make do with bread or pizza, which she ordered. It was a wonderful time and they were both very happy.

On the morning of her first day on the job, the caretaker asked for the key to the flat because a plumbing company was coming to do some repairs. She agreed, and when she came home that evening, the man was waiting for her, proud to have good news for all the tenants. Then he opened the bathroom door with a loud 'ta-da' and said: 'Surprise!'

There was a small, modern, gleaming white gas water heater hanging in the bathroom.

The caretaker later told the young woman's tearful mother that he didn't know why the usually calm and pleasant woman had suddenly lost her cool. She had grabbed him by the throat, screaming and screaming. He had struggled to free himself and immediately called the police. 'Maybe', he said, 'she couldn't stand being alone anymore.'

© 'My friend Thomas: Loneliness and the illusion of a strong bond': A fantasy story by Pressenet (translated by Izabel Comati), 04/2025. Image credit: Lonely Woman, CC0 (Public Domain Licence).