Firstly, Alice disorientates the trousers by smacking out the creases, then she hangs them upside down on the washing line. 

            Next, she makes hostage of his blue shirts by pinning them down by the shoulders, firmly wedging the peg over the cotton so there is permanent tension in the shoulders. The scent on the garments is all her own making, a fresh fragrance of apples and camomile. 

            Alice sniffs the air. A storm is coming, just as she thought. The sky has never been bigger, wider, darker. 

            From the kitchen window, she watches the restless wind circling the fabric, trying and failing to escape, like a trapped bird flapping against a window seeking sky and cloud when there is only glass. 

            Alice opens the kitchen window just as the storm comes and rains anarchy on the house and garden, on the cornered garments, tearing shirts and trousers free from the washing line. The rain comes as relentlessly and remorselessly as his lies.

 She has packed her suitcase. The washing basket is empty. 

            Not all of Alice’s husband’s clothes would fit on the washing line. The rest lie in a heap on the lawn.

            He always was insistent on having two of everything. 

First Published by Boston Literary Magazine.