Sometimes I want to speak to her directly, ignore the worlds, class gulf, religious divides between us, and just talk, woman to woman
Downstairs, done, now time for ironing. Where are those shirts?
Brenda, the woman of the house, is on the phone, wearing a path in the carpet as she paces.
“Ironing now, right? The shirts aren’t in the basket.”
She looks at me absently, blinks, and says, “Oh. Shirts. They’re in the dryer.”
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