September 29, 2006
Rayne
Rayne lowered her flight suit into the tub of the washing machine over the towels, curling it around the twisted agitator. She closed the lid and set the dials to Large Load settings, warm wash, cold rinse. As she snapped the last dial for a 15 minute wash the water the washer started it's slow hissing gush.
She bent to her right and opened the dryer door, reached in and gathered the warm dry things and put them on the counter. As she did, she rolled a crease of the fabric of a pillowcase between her fingers, and the cotton threads sent tiny vibrations across the ridges of her fingertips. Taking it up, she flipped it around, put her index fingers in the corners of the opening and snapped it tight. She folded it in thirds the long way and then in half the short way; she put it on the countertop, squared it to the corner, then smoothed it with the heel of her right hand. She pulled the other pillowcase out of the pile, folded it in the same way, and aligned it on its mate, again smoothing it with the heel of her hand.
She took the mesh bag of her brassieres from the pile, emptied it and took them up one at a time, folding them, winding the straps. She made two careful piles with them next to the pillow cases. Jack's white sweat socks were next: match the pair, snap, fold, curl. He had brought back a lot of laundry from his trip. In the kitchen her phone rang. Snap, fold, curl; one by one she tucked the pairs of socks together and tossed them into the basket on the floor next to her. The ringing from the kitchen stopped. Next to her the washer started the churn cycle. The clothes from the dryer weren't quite so warm now. A beep came from her phone in the kitchen. Jack was out for his Saturday morning run and she would not be interrupted.
She had left their underwear for last. He wore silk boxers and she wore white cotton thongs; that or nothing.
In the kitchen her phone rang again. She picked up a maroon pair of his boxers and snapped them, thumbed in the elastic and folded them in thirds; then she laid them on the top of the dryer, smoothing them with the heel of her hand. She pulled one of her thongs from the pile, untwisted them with a shake, then folded it and laid them next to his shorts, touching. Cotton and silk. Mine and yours. We touch.
She repeated the process twice more; olive boxer, white thong; black boxer, white thong. Snap, fold, stack, smooth.
The washer cycled into a more vigorous sound. She took a crimson pair of his pants and folded them. Then one of her own, she folded the thin white strips. She reached for his indigo boxers, the ones she liked. They felt heavy in her hand. When she snapped them they didn't fall smooth like the others had and she shook them again. A scrap of fabric the color of the sky fell in a small heap on the white top of the washing machine. She set his boxers aside and picked up the fabric that had fallen out of the leg.
Panties. A woman's panties. Pale blue. She dropped them on the top of the vibrating machine. The waistband was slightly frayed, the leg openings edged with fine lace frill. The woman who wore them was two sizes larger than she. Her phone beeped again in the kitchen.
There was a frigid rushing in her chest, and she felt the tile floor pressing up against her feet. She studied the pale panties stretched out on her washing machine, memorizing them, their wide straight waistband and the twin crescents of their leg holes.
She took them into the kitchen and put them on the round wooden table, stood looking at them. Her phone rang again and she picked it up and flipped it open, not checking the display. "This is Rayne." She turned towards the door, he elbows tight to her waist. "Oh, hi Sue... no, I'm at home." She reached out and moved the salt and pepper shakers on the counter together, set them square to the back of the counter. She closed her eyes. "Excuse me?" She went back to the table and sat down. "No, I'm sorry Sue, go ahead."
She lifted her bag and fished out her key ring. She twisted her two house keys from it and put them on the panties, the sharp teeth of the keys making the open mouth of an alligator.
Her phone beeped again. Taking it from the counter, she went out through the back door.
posted by matthew at 11:22 PM