When Only Half Moves On
The night before, we had rocked the sheets until they were wet with sweat and wrinkled from writhing. We laid around and got up slowly in the morning. You sat down on the sofa with a bowl of cereal and turned on the game.
Feeling lazy and content, I threw on sweatpants and t-shirt, wrestled my hair into a pony tail, and stripped the sheets off the bed.
A few minutes later, with coffee in hand, I trudged into the laundromat, and there she was. Bam! Like a sucker punch to the gut you never saw coming. She looked up from a romance novel and smiled at me softly. I felt horrible – like my soul had instantly melted into a sick pile of glop on the floor.
For years, she and I had been friends – close friends, the thick and thin kind you trust with your deepest secrets. But now the pain in her eyes was unmistakable and unforgiving. In split seconds she had evaluated the situation and knew.
I felt sick as I loaded the sheets into the washer. She was behind me, but the burning sensation at the back of my neck told me she was watching.
I was shoving everything into the washer as if closing the door would bring some kind of relief. And there, at the bottom of the basket was the final blow – your boxer shorts – the ones she gave you for Christmas two years ago.
I thought I would die a thousand deaths right there for the sins I had committed. And as I tossed them in and reached for the door, they came tumbling out with a hand towel and a pair of socks.
Insult to injury.
I lunged down to snatch them up as if the less time they spent in plain view, the less it would hurt her – but my hands kept fumbling as if controlled by someone not me.
With a snap, the door latch closed, and the sloshing of sudsy water joined the wrrr of washers and dryers.
I didn’t want to turn around. I could feel the lump in my throat growing with my cowardice and shame.
Posted by Amanda at November 05, 2004 12:45 AM
