"Intimate Garments"
"Laundromats?" His laugh was brittle. "She forbids it! Claims filth remains! Alien smells!" "Machines?" I pressed. "Special cycles?" "No!" he snapped impatiently. "Too rough! Water insufficiently hot! Germs survive!" He sounded weary, trapped. "So..." I choked out, absurdity choking me. "Her underwear... you wash it?"


"Only I Can"
"What choice?!" he yelled, eyes reddening—distress or defensiveness? "Her son! Raised me! Can’t deny her this? Simply washing clothes—is it torture?" He gestured wildly at the panties. "Hand-scrubbing! Boiling! Sun drying! Her demands! Trusts only me! What should I do? Watch her suffer?"


Shocking Revelation
He spewed "filial duty" and "helplessness," self-righteous. "Simply washing clothes"? He trivialized it. Hearing "trusts only me" applied to laundering his mother’s underwear froze my blood. This breached all boundaries—treating her son as a spousal surrogate! Observing his aggrieved face, revulsion overwhelmed me. The man I shared a bed with felt monstrously alien.

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