The ironing man

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Did I tell you about my ironing man?

Oh he’s good, I mean, darling, look at my blouse, there is not one crease on it. He lives in a small apartment with two other roommates and he specialises in ironing.

Well, technically, he is reading for an English Degree but he always says how he is getting “all tangled up in words”* and ironing helps him “straighten things out and get them flat,”* so since we met, I have never had to iron anything. Every time my closet is a messy zone of dresses resting on armchairs, shirts brimming from drawers, and skirts dangling from the chandelier, I pack my valise and head out to visit Duncan.

I usually find him by himself, in his trousers and nothing else, straightening the corners of a handkerchief or a scarf. He’s always more excited to see what’s in my valise rather than me, which is fine, I usually sit on the sofa and watch him go through every crease with a patience and a dedication that is calming.

I would sometimes ask him whether he has made any progress in his assignments but he usually becomes gloomy when I do, always stating how everything has “been done already”* so I don’t ask him very often. When he’s done, he packs everything for me and thanks me. Walking down the street in my smoking slippers and a valise of freshly ironed clothes, I would always remember his request to “come back, soon, and bring some more.”

*Quotes taken from Margaret Atwood’s The Edible Woman

Story credits: Margaret Atwood’s The Edible Woman; Favim.com for the image.

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