Twisting, turning, contorting.
I stare through the glass of the washing machine, thinking about us. How many times can two people come clean before they fall apart? They say falling apart is the way people put things back together. I don’t know.
But, I do know why people cheat: one person’s limitations push the other’s outward to find fulfillment.
His favorite jeans flip in the water, and I feel like I’ve been flipped too. Turned around again. He said he had needs, needs I couldn’t fulfill. So he went elsewhere, taking everything but a few fabriced memories. Memories I keep washing. Foolish, I know, but I’ve always done it. Even before we were married, I washed. He said it was my job; I didn’t mind doing it.
His black dress shirt tumbles into view, the sleeves waving at me as they spin. I always liked that shirt. I liked the way he wore it with too many buttons open. I liked it, until I walked into my kitchen to see her wearing it. With nothing buttoned. I have to admit: she looked good. Her breasts are better than mine.
 |
I yank open the washer door and pull the shirt out, throwing it against the wall. It’s not waving anymore. The door slams shut, cycle returning. But that’s all that comes back. He’s gone; I’m alone. They say that’s the way it goes. I hate that expression. If I could have made him happy, he would have stayed. If I could have done everything…
His favorite jeans make another round and I’m suddenly glad I have them. He doesn’t deserve them—my memory. And she doesn’t either. She doesn’t deserve to see them on him when he’s thinking, the fabric tightening with intent. Of course, she gets to see him without the jeans. She possesses him now. But I still have the memory.
And I watch it spin.
Michelle V. Pozar, a fifty-two-year-old former substance abuse counselor, grew up in a mill town, at the base of the Cascade Mountains, in Oregon's South Willamette Valley. Between her love of human nature and its expression, she continuously seeks to delve deeper into life's anomalies. She’s been a featured op-editor in Seattle-area papers.
Have comments you'd like to send the author?
Please e-mail
Michelle
Lost-in-to-the-Eye courtesy of Art.com
