And yet. Here we are.
It sits off the kitchen, door permanently half open because shutting it feels like a personal attack. The washing machine hums with quiet authority. Two laundry baskets sit on the floor, touching. I do not acknowledge this.
“We need to establish boundaries,” I say, wedged between the counter and the doorframe.
Geoff peers into the nearest basket. “They’re just clothes.”
“They’reseparateclothes.”
He reaches in and pulls something out.
“Oh,” he says. “Hello.”
It’s one of my bras. Sensible. Beige. Engineered.
I snatch it back. “Do not inspect the infrastructure.”
“I wasn’t judging.”
“You wereevaluating.”
“Structurally,” he says. “It looks dependable.”
“That bra has survived a broken engagement and a wedding in heels,” I reply. “Put it down.”
He does. Carefully. “Veteran status.”
He reaches in again and comes up with my knickers. Black. High-waisted. Entirely unapologetic.
He nods. “These say ‘I know who I am.’”
“They say ‘multipack’,” I counter. “And comfort.”
“Still. Strong presence.”
I retaliate by grabbing something from his basket.
Grey boxers. Soft. Well worn. Possibly sentient.
I hold them up. “Right. These need addressing.”
He squints. “What’s wrong with them?”
“They look like they sigh.”
“They’re comfortable.”
“They’ve emotionally retired.”
He laughs. “You are not ranking my pants.”
“I am absolutely ranking your pants.”
I toss them aside and dig again.
Navy boxers. Better. Respectable.
“These are middle management,” I say. “Dependable. No flair.”
