Balcony Whispers
"...I know... don’t worry..." "...Not forgotten... washed and returned tomorrow..." "...Enough, Mom—sleep now..." Gentle, coaxing patience. Lying in bed, ears straining: "Washed? Returned?" What demanded secretive midnight calls? Something cleaned for his mother? Hadn’t she taken the shirt earlier? Gripping the sheets, I stared at ceiling shadows. That paper bag’s presence weighed unbearably heavy.
Shower Sounds
David ended the call and entered. Soon, water cascaded in the bathroom. He was showering. An idea flashed—I slipped from bed, bare feet silent on cold tiles, edging to the bathroom door. Frosted glass glowed with blurred light and movement. Water roared. Pressing an ear to the door, I heard nothing beyond the spray. How long? A minute? Mere seconds? Silence fell. Startled, I scurried back to bed, feigning sleep beneath covers. Heart drummed wildly in the dark.
Pajama Incident
Saturday brought her again—no knock, keys jangling. She bore fresh fava beans from "a friend." "David?" "Working in study," I replied. Nodding, she set down beans and marched toward the bedroom. Holding my breath, I followed. This time, she bypassed the wardrobe for the bed. David’s pajamas lay discarded. She lifted his loose cotton top, sniffing. "Tch," she scowled, "sweat-stained! Fine fabric—ruined by washing machines." Turning, her gaze sharpened: "You must hand-wash it!".
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"...I know... don’t worry..." "...Not forgotten... washed and returned tomorrow..." "...Enough, Mom—sleep now..." Gentle, coaxing patience. Lying in bed, ears straining: "Washed? Returned?" What demanded secretive midnight calls? Something cleaned for his mother? Hadn’t she taken the shirt earlier? Gripping the sheets, I stared at ceiling shadows. That paper bag’s presence weighed unbearably heavy.
Shower Sounds
David ended the call and entered. Soon, water cascaded in the bathroom. He was showering. An idea flashed—I slipped from bed, bare feet silent on cold tiles, edging to the bathroom door. Frosted glass glowed with blurred light and movement. Water roared. Pressing an ear to the door, I heard nothing beyond the spray. How long? A minute? Mere seconds? Silence fell. Startled, I scurried back to bed, feigning sleep beneath covers. Heart drummed wildly in the dark.
Pajama Incident
Saturday brought her again—no knock, keys jangling. She bore fresh fava beans from "a friend." "David?" "Working in study," I replied. Nodding, she set down beans and marched toward the bedroom. Holding my breath, I followed. This time, she bypassed the wardrobe for the bed. David’s pajamas lay discarded. She lifted his loose cotton top, sniffing. "Tch," she scowled, "sweat-stained! Fine fabric—ruined by washing machines." Turning, her gaze sharpened: "You must hand-wash it!".
NEXT >>
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