I wrote this post after reading this sentence in the October 10th issue of the Seattle Daily Journal of Commerce: “Eventually you just want to come down and kick the iron.”
“The hell with it,” said Lisa. Her shirt was so wrinkled she looked like a cabbage. But she kept it on anyway. It was either that or wear the stretched out gray sweatshirt. The one Greg was talking about when he said, “Flashdance called. It wants its shirt back.”
She looked in the mirror, but now she was looking at herself, not the shirt. Wondering how she had picked the man who would move out on her and take most of her clothes along with his. What could he possibly plan on doing with her clothes? It wasn’t like they fit him. And the iron. He’d never ironed his own clothes in his life. He didn’t even know how to use one, except as a bookend.
Lisa thought about going to get her clothes back, but had a better idea. You were supposed to dress for the job you wanted, not for the one you had. She could take half the money in her bank account and buy clothes for the job she wanted. Make a change. Move on. And all those other clichés. Don’t forget the one about one door opening when an idiot shuts the other one.
When she went down the stairs on the way to her car, there was the iron, to the left, nestled in the wilted daisies. All the anger that hadn’t ignited for Greg blazed hot for the iron. She hated it, the way it lay there tilted and inanimate. The way it was powder blue and had an easy-view water tube. The way it had seven settings but nobody ever used more than two.
Just as quickly, the anger dissipated. Lisa walked past the iron and opened the car door. From here on out, she would wear wrinkle-free fabric. End of discussion.