She ran the red iron across another starchy white shirt.
Its nose snuck in between each button, down each arm,
and across the back.
The electric heat reminded her of their honeymoon. The
days when his voice was something that burned her insides. Now,
his words just dropped. They were treaded over and pressed
into the floor, like crumbs from Sunday dinner that she sweeps up
and throws in the trash.
That evening, as he snores, she lays on her spine, gazing up at the blank
ceiling. She rolls onto her side to face him. The wrinkles at the sides
of his eyes seem to stretch upwards in a smile. Those are new, she thinks,
rising from the bed.
Downstairs she gets a glass of water and stares into the reflective glass
window above the sink. She furrows her brow, she sticks out her tongue,
the woman in the window does the same. She raises her right hand,
stretching each finger straight, she holds it there for a few seconds, then
in a progression from pinkie to index, she pulls each finger back into her
palm. The woman in the window does the same.
Finally, she puts the plug in the sink and lets the faucet weep until it almost
spills over. She dilutes the water with pink dish soap titled Spring Blossom.
Waves are created as gravy crusted dinner plates slip from her hands, one by one
they dive into the water. Her head shakes as she grabs the green edged sponge,
no wonder I couldn’t sleep, she whispers.