without a colour run risk and adding it to the pile. Jeans, mine or his, I don’t stop to distinguish the difference, a few t-shirts and some more random underwear bits to fill out the load.
Scooping it all up, bending to repeatedly pick up escaping socks its back downstairs checking back occasionally for any socks on a mission to avoid the wash. And finally stuff it all into the drum. I’m hovering with my finger above the start button with one of those burning senses that you’re forgetting something, but what? Powders in the draw, I re-check the cycle I’ve chosen and it’s adequate, I give the door another push to make sure it’s closed properly, yep. But still this feeling, what? What is it?
“Oh” I mumble out loud, forgot the pocket check. Once, just once, a couple of months back, I didn’t check the pockets of my jeans before I washed them and ended up washing a £20 note to within an inch of its life, Jake went mad, “Why are you so stupid? How hard can it be just to check the pockets? For god’s sake Kaitlin, sometimes I swear you do this just to irritate me!” I mean Jesus, come off it, it was a simple over site, how about calm the hell down!
That was one of our best pointless arguments; It ended in me taking the offending £20 to the shops exchanging it for two bottles of red wine, I think it was the look on my face that stopped the boy behind the counter questioning its disheveled appearance, then hunkering down at Cassie’s for the night getting hideously drunk and thoroughly airing our (mostly my) dirty laundry.
So back to the task in hand, pulling out the jeans I dutifully start checking pockets, the third and final pair of black trousers are Jake's, nothing in the front, nothing in the ba……hold on, I’ve hit the jackpot, if its more than £5 I’m going down to the late night corner shop and treating myself to some high quality ice cream.
Pulling out the folded paper I can see it’s just that, folded white paper, no money, frowning I carefully unfold it. Slumping back against the washing machine I can feel the colour draining from my face,“My darling, I wish I could be with you always, until next time….all my love Stacy x x x x x x” Her writing is curly and seductive, my mind starts racing trying to piece together an imaginary image of this husband stealing vixen, wait a minute Stacy? Stacy! His secretary?? Oh no, no this is too much of a cliché, is he serious? He’s having an affair with his secretary? Ha! A vicious scoff escapes my lips, next thing you know he’ll arrive home in a sports car, really hammering home the early mid-life crisis.
I’m numb, if it wasn’t so ludicrous I might be angry, upset even, but come on Jake, I would have given you more credit than that, if your going to destroy both our lives you could try to be a little bit more imaginative surely?
Maybe that’s half the problem, I give him too much credit, I expect too much from him, I thought he was better than this. Maybe it’s put too much pressure on him, me thinking he’s perfect when he’s far from it, he is only human after all.
Whoa! Hold on, what am I saying? How can I be so quick to defend him? Even now I am painting him as the injured party. This is not my fault, I have been in this same marriage, dealing with the same arguments and I haven’t had an affair! I need to speak to Cassie, this is too much to process. Glancing to the wall, the clock mocks me, its twenty past eleven, it’s too late to call now, her kids will be asleep. So what now? The wine! I still have a small glass left, I’ll start there, staggering to my feet I feel hollow, like someone has knocked the wind out of me. I’ve been dreading this moment for months now, but yet somehow in my mind I always played it out more dramatically. I’ve imagined myself walking in on him and some model-esk beauty, screaming obscenities at them, reading Jake the riot act while he begs for forgiveness and finally throwing him out, naked, into the street followed by his most precious belongings, via the upstairs window. The reality however, is a real anticlimax.