He folds my t-shirts into perfect tiny squares and on occasion they disappear. He’ll bring them back to my house after mistaking them for his four-year old son’s. “You know I can’t fit into his shirts, right?” I said the first time. “They’re both tiny,” he said.
At first I was a little embarrassed when I would arrive home and see that he had been there folding laundry. I would see a few of my old tattered panties and think I should get some new ones if he is going to be doing my laundry. Then I would think about his own tattered Batman and Guinness boxers and figure neither one of us really cared much about what each other’s underwear looked like.
When we first started commingling our laundry he struggled to remember how I folded towels. He knew there were thirds somewhere in the process. “Half, half, then thirds,” I said, “but it doesn’t really matter, ” I added. “Yes, it does,” he said.
He put up with me telling him he didn’t have to slam the washer door on the front loader. “I know it doesn’t seem to line up, but if you lift up on the door a little, it will close without a problem.” I was reminded that men are harder on things.
He also put up with me telling him not to ever leave the washer or dryer door open because of my fear that the kitten would go inside without us knowing. He accepts my paranoia about things like that.
In the beginning it was weird for me. I hadn’t folded a man’s clothes in several years. Then there were little boy jeans and baby socks and it all seemed so foreign, yet all so familiar, too. And sweet.
We take turns buying detergent.