Non-dark clothes in this pile, workout clothes in this pile. Karl handled these gingerly. They were hers. She was the one who went to the gym several times a week. Once, when they were much younger, and Karl was more lusty, just the thought of handling her sweaty clothes would have gotten him excited. Now it made him want to wretch. Better to not think about it. Just make sure they get in the right pile.

Because she was wont, wasn't she? Yes she was. Very wont. Wont to do the laundry herself, on occasion. When she thought Karl was getting behind. Well, to put it gently, fuck her. He did the laundry almost constantly, and if she happened to wear something that didn't go in one of the existing piles, it didn't get washed for a while. She didn't see the continuous refilling of her closets and drawers. No, not her, she just noticed that she hadn’t seen her navy pants in three days. Like Karl was going to wash navy pants in the same load as khaki!

So she'd come in here when she though "it needed to be done" and she'd wash her navy pants with her soggy workout clothes and of course she would set the washing machine to "delicate" and the water to "cold" and then the workout clothes wouldn't get as clean as they should and she'd put the wrong things in the dryer for the love of the bleeding Christ and then she would have the unmitigated gall to complain to him, to Karl that her clothes smelled funny. Well no shit, sister.

And when she opened the dryer she'd empty the lint trap and just put the wadded-up lint ball on the counter, arm's reach away, not bothering to take literally one damn step in order to reach the trash can. Karl should just leave it there. Just leave it there for a few weeks until she found it. Karl, she'd say, why is there a waded-up ball of lint on the counter? Because, he'd say, that's where you left it. But that was weeks ago, she'd say. I know, he'd say. I'm tired of picking up after you. And while we're on the subject, weeks ago? So it's been that long since you've been in the laundry room? So I guess I do do the laundry pretty often, then, don't I? Keep up pretty good, don't I? Why'd you even bother going in there today? Needed a sock washed that you felt wasn't washed soon enough? Then maybe she'd burst into tears, and realize what a horrible person she was, and just leave Karl the fuck alone for the rest of his life.

The dirty clothes were sorted. Karl reached for the knob on the washing machine to start the water. Start the water, then add the soap, then add the clothes. He'd seen her screw that one up a few times, for sure. Idiot. Karl's fingers caressed the knob, and he stopped himself. Wait a damn second, he thought. He opened the lid, and sure enough, wet clothes inside. "Motherfucker!" he shouted again.

It had happened so many times before. She put clothes in there, "washed" them, then just let them sit. Karl would come in to do some laundry, and start the water without checking, and when he finally lifted the lid, he was greeted with clothes that now needed another spin cycle. Damn it. But he was learning. Always check first. With a woman like that in the house, you always check first.

He pulled the clothes out, a big wet pile, and put them on the dryer. Grabbed some hangers from the drying rack, and began to hang the wet clothes to dry. Air dry. Karl put a hanger in his mouth, taste of almonds, used both hands to pull a wet shirt through, then hung it up. Another hanger, in his teeth, pull through a wet sweater. Air dry these clothes. You want them to shrink? Maybe she did. Maybe that's why she went to the gym all the damn time, so she could shrink the same way her clothes shrank, the way she screwed up washing them.

Dizziness. Probably from anger. Karl popped another hanger into his mouth, pulled through a shirt. A sudden spasm wracked his stomach. Damn it. She was giving him an ulcer, on top of everything else? Another spasm, and a sharp pain. Jesus. Did she give him appendicitis too? He tried to fight through it. If he just left the clothes here, she might come in and hang a few, or just, god forbid, toss them in the dryer. And then tell him she had to do his work for him. And he wasn't even allowed to punch her, repeatedly, in the face.

Another spasm folded him in half. Sweat poured out if his forehead. Karl collapsed on the floor. His hands were on fire, he felt like he'd been vomiting for hours. His back was a twisted rack of pain. What the hell was happening? His legs were numb, and then his bowels, a cold numbness. He could feel his teeth grinding, then cracking as his jaw tightened and tightened. Blood poured out of his mouth. His vision got cloudy. And then she walked into the laundry room.

Sweaty, in work-out clothes. She knelt down, pulled at one of his eyelids, stared at his pupils. Satisfied, she stood up, took the clothes from the hangars, tossed the clothes into the dryer. All of the hangers went into the sink, where she washed them, methodically, carefully, with lots of hot water and soap.