Butterflies in November

FOURTEEN

After this final wash, it will just be a matter of conscience whether I do his laundry in the future or not.

It’s relatively simple to sort clean laundry in a wardrobe, four shelves for him, four shelves for her. But it’s another kettle of fish when it comes to the laundry basket — my panties tangled in his shirts, his underpants in my blouses, odd socks here and there — all those things that just got chucked in together, both because they were of the same colour and because we were married, formed a unit. But there are also grey areas. What, for example, should be done with duvet covers that have been embroidered with our initials, cross-stitched under the figures of two white doves? Should I ask Mom to undo the labour she poured her soul into?

I’m feeling peckish and peep into the fridge. There is the cold goose and trimming inside. It feels somehow inappropriate for a single woman like me, at this new juncture in my life, so I decide to go out to the shop.

It’s not my style to be crying in public or, more ludicrous still, in the vegetable section of a supermarket, shoving peppers into a bag, far from the crate of onions. I’m standing there, weighing and evaluating two peppers in the palms of my hands, one yellow, one red. I let one hand sink and the other rise, counterpoising the vegetables in my palms a brief moment, like that naked goddess balancing her scales in search of truth. The idea was to toss them into the oven with some olive oil and salt. A man looks up from the mushrooms to fix his gaze on me, as if I were that very same goddess, weeping behind her reading glasses. An old woman gropes some very ripe bananas with her bony hands and finally chooses two spotted ones, and places them in the basket beside a tub of buttermilk.

By the time I tie a knot in the bag of peppers I’ve made two important decisions. One, to get contact lenses that will enable me to discreetly size up the men scattered around the store and, two, to take some time off to go on a distant journey, as I’ve already declared to two men I would. Actually, I’ve never really ever taken a summer holiday. There is nothing to stop me from going away for as long as I like. I can take my work with me, change lifestyle, stop printing things out, stop delivering by car. I realize now that my workspace by the harbour was nothing but a pretext to be able to stare out at the shipyard.