It had something to do with the dryer. We’d been playing Russian roulette with it. Each load a spin of the chamber, rippling and clanking so loud the baby would stop, stare, and point, as if warning us.
“I told you,” I whined to my husband, his hand on the remote, eyes glazed by the screen, “that it was going to break down.” He said not to worry. It had years of life left. The way he always says everything’s fine, floating in his clouds of weed.
Like a fool, I believed him. Wanted to. Then blink. As in on the blink. Our luck finally ran out.
We’ll get it fixed.
Now I’m airing out my clean, not dirty, laundry in our front yard. All my ugly white cotton briefs for the world to see, my private failures clipped up by their corners. The chickens cluck beneath this awning of underpants, pecking grass. So peaceful. Domestic. Perfectly at home.
Above, my dingy, torn underwear signals surrender. A dozen small white flags snapping open. How I would love to swing like those skivvies. Weightless, carefree, swaying every which way, far from this broken-down home and marriage. Far from bird dung, failed parts, and my wasted good faith.
I’d wave and flutter, enjoying the ride, not caring where, or whether, I’d land.
