She smooths the sock across the ironing board with her fingertips, shapes the toe with her thumb and forefinger. Then the other one. They are side by side but not perfectly lined up, as if they’re springing into flight like the ceramic ducks on the wall, their bright blue-green glaze catching the light like possibility; their beaks wide apart, as if they can taste the air. Until a cloud shifts outside.
She presses against the wool with the iron, holds it in its slow exhale as the steam leaks from the sides. She flips the socks so they’re running downhill and leans into the iron again before folding them into their pair, neatly laying them on a pile.
“Your Dad’s been having an affair,” she says, as she lays one of his shirts along the board, smoothing the cotton breast with the palm of her hand.
