Model Wife

By Hema S.

My husband’s underwear is left out to dry on the clothesline across the terrace. It is about to rain. I fly up the stairs only to find the skies groaning, the wind battering against the earth’s atmosphere. The clothespins let loose and now it is a parade of rebellious clothing. I skirt across the floor and sprout wings and fly. One by one, I retrieve the clothes. I come back home soaked, and my wings retract into my shoulder blades.

My husband returns from work, calls me worthless, says the house stinks. His damp underwear is spread out everywhere in here.