"Mother’s Youth"
"Ah, this old thing," he said lightly, taking it, polishing the glass with a thumb. "Found it during cleanup. Mom insisted I keep it last visit—a memento." Fondness tinged his tone. "See? She was lovely once. Not like her sour mood now." He placed the frame atop his nightstand—boldly visible. His easy smile choked my rising doubts. Was I paranoid? Yet... the underwear? How explain that?
Laundry Query
Another weekend, shopping with a friend. Passing a chain laundromat near home, I gestured at display windows: steaming shirts and dresses. "Can intimate apparel—say, women’s underwear—be laundered professionally?" "Of course," she replied instantly. "Specialty services—delicate, bagged separately. Lifesaver for busy folks." Eyeing me, she teased: "Feeling guilty about David washing yours?" I stiffened a smile. Yes, even friends assumed: hand-washed or laundered. Elderly, incapable—why not a service?
Midnight Balcony
Why David... involved? The thought pricked again. That night repeated: David pacing the dim balcony, phone murmuring. "...Cleaned, don’t fret..." "...Know you need freshness..." "...Delivered tomorrow... Sleep..." Again—washing! Returning! He hung up, breeze-chilled, slipping into bed. I feigned sleep. Beside him, his steady breath felt like a suffocating enigma. Those pink lace panties burned in memory.
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"Ah, this old thing," he said lightly, taking it, polishing the glass with a thumb. "Found it during cleanup. Mom insisted I keep it last visit—a memento." Fondness tinged his tone. "See? She was lovely once. Not like her sour mood now." He placed the frame atop his nightstand—boldly visible. His easy smile choked my rising doubts. Was I paranoid? Yet... the underwear? How explain that?
Laundry Query
Another weekend, shopping with a friend. Passing a chain laundromat near home, I gestured at display windows: steaming shirts and dresses. "Can intimate apparel—say, women’s underwear—be laundered professionally?" "Of course," she replied instantly. "Specialty services—delicate, bagged separately. Lifesaver for busy folks." Eyeing me, she teased: "Feeling guilty about David washing yours?" I stiffened a smile. Yes, even friends assumed: hand-washed or laundered. Elderly, incapable—why not a service?
Midnight Balcony
Why David... involved? The thought pricked again. That night repeated: David pacing the dim balcony, phone murmuring. "...Cleaned, don’t fret..." "...Know you need freshness..." "...Delivered tomorrow... Sleep..." Again—washing! Returning! He hung up, breeze-chilled, slipping into bed. I feigned sleep. Beside him, his steady breath felt like a suffocating enigma. Those pink lace panties burned in memory.
NEXT >>
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