I'll curl up in a pile of dirty laundry when she's gone. I let this slip to a friend once. "Don't you mean clean laundry?" he said. "No," I told him, "dirty." He winced in disgust. That is the only word I have found to describe it.
But cleaning it would only make it smell of detergent. There is nothing attached to that scent but "fresh," and who cares about that? There are no meals, no long walks home, no holding hands under the café table. There's no scrap of anyone there, just a blank slate, a canvas on which no memory has been painted. No, I hold close to her soiled undershirts, her stained jeans, her weeks-old bra. I could get clean clothes anywhere.
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