I was folding his socks in the basement.
The washer gurgled, the dryer hummed. The noise was a rumbling freight train, a caboose trembling on the tracks.
I had a stack of his clean socks and was mechanically matching and rolling one into the other. He hated that. Said I should line them up neatly, one atop the other, toes touching, leg bands even, and fold it in thirds, leg band to middle, toe to middle. Just like his mom did. He liked how his mom did things.
I’m the one doing the job, my mind ground out in reply to his endless criticisms. I didn’t speak the words. He wasn’t listening and I’d already learned not to talk when he drank.
He was sitting on the couch, holding a can of beer. There was a pile of empties stacked neatly in the corner. The sour stink of Old Milwaukee’s Best fouled the sweet scent of clean sheets.
I was folding, rolling his socks.
The washer gurgled, the dryer hummed.
We’d moved into the house not three months before. I was already tired of the large rooms, manicured yard, the never-ending housework. I was tired of him, tired of myself, and I knew it.
Trapped, I’d trapped myself.
The pile of socks grew. White round balls. He frowned at them.
I wish you wouldn’t do them that way.
I threw a sock ball at him.
Here. You can do it yourself.
He shook his head. Frowned. Swapped an empty can of beer for a full one; the pop-top cracked and hissed. He sipped.
You don’t have it so bad. Lots of girls would be happy to have a husband like me. No one will ever treat you the way I do.
He sat, threw the sock ball back at me. Do it right, he said.
I was folding his socks in the basement. I stopped. My breath stopped.
The washer gurgled; the dryer hummed.
I looked down at my hands, hands holding a white tube sock.
I put the sock down.
I looked at him and spoke to the inside of my head, to my invisible ears and shaking heart.
I can treat myself better. I can treat myself better.
I can treat myself better than you treat me and I can treat myself better than anyone I will ever meet.
I can treat myself better and I deserve to be treated better and I will learn how to treat myself better.
I want to be treated better.
If I live alone I will be treated better.
If I never have another love I will be treated better.
I can be treated better.
I want to be treated better.
I deserve it.
The washer drained; the dryer clicked off. The room grew quiet.
I finished folding his socks.
by Susan Rich, (c)2014 All Rights Reserved
