The Craziness of Laundry

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She picked one of his shirts out of the laundry basket and took a few deep breaths as she folded it. Only a whole hamper to go… she thought as she wrung her hands.

Another shirt and a pair of his pants later, she sat in a ball on the bed, rocking back and forth. The lock on the front door clicked. The door opened and locked again. Shoes tapped the hardwood floor. A shadow in the hallway. A male voice.


He found her on the bed amongst scattered, half-folded clean clothes. Mascara stained her cheeks, her nose was red and splotchy. He rushed to her side.

“You’re not supposed to be doing laundry,” he told her, taking her small frame in his arms.

“They — they said I was okay,” she whispered through sniffles. She ran her forearm under her nose and her knuckles under her eyes. Thoroughly unattractive, but she didn’t care.

He sighed. “They said you would be,” he told her, emphasizing the future tense, “but you’re still not supposed to be doing laundry.” He paused and took a deep breath, surveying the situation. “We need a maid.”

His comment seemed to bring her from her laundry-induced stupor. “No,” she said quickly, guilt instantly setting in. You’re not good enough a part of her brain chided. “That’s not necessary.” She paused, fresh tears springing to her eyes, as she tried to take a deep breath. “I’ll be a laughing stock.”

He hugged her close. “No one needs to know why we have one,” he consoled her. “Plenty of people in this neighborhood have a maid.”

“But if someone finds out…”

“No one will find out laundry sent you to an asylum,” he told her, kissing her temple.

She stared at him, unconvinced, but knew it was the answer and smiled. “Fine. We need a maid.” She kissed him.

“Let me put away the laundry,” he told her.