Folding Underwear

Folding Underwear
photo  and words by T.M. Weber
i was wearing a black shirt with blue jeans. my bare feet slapped the wood floor. she smiled when she walked through the door, like always. smiling was easy for her. not so much for me…but we make it work. i peeled off the jeans which were stuck to my legs. because of the heat? and threw them in a basket. it’s funny, laundry day, when you see how bland and boring everything you wear is. all blue, black and gray. sometimes there’s a little white, maybe red or green, but that’s rare. my heart beats fast and my face is flush. there is no remedy for the situation i’ve put myself in. grab the detergent and head downstairs with those same bare feet from before. six quarters, same, like last week and a half hour wait upstairs. hearing things and feeling vibrations and wishing it was more black and white and that this patience thing would start working out for the better. but… looking back on conversations from last week and hearing your recycled slogans of yesteryear. this is not the end, but when is the beginning? thirty minutes have passed and my legs refuse to leave the kitchen stool. so i leave them behind and walk on my knuckles down three flights of stairs. lint. dryer sheets. not the black skirt and the gray sweater, especially the corduroy shorts. there are only a few reasons to like summer. i don’t want to get into it though… wait tables to make money to buy food i never eat. run into drunk friends on the street, stop for a chat and a kiss on the cheek. six more quarters and a press of a button. he’s here and the kitchen’s full. we eat snacks and make plans and laugh while she chops and smiles. always with the fucking smiling. i sit on the couch and fall asleep for what feels like days but is only moments. dreamt of a mustache smoking a cigarette who offered me half a whiskey shot. i obliged him and called him “king” and then i woke up to fold some t-shirts and underwear.