I saw someone with the same long sleeved, Polo button-down as you today. It was striped. Thinly striped. Primary colors. Spring/summer appropriate. Very 90s & “In Living Color”. We were hella thrifty at that time. This shirt had the kind of fabric and pattern that always looked a bit wrinkled — no matter how much you ironed it, no matter how much elbow grease. The one I saw today was wrinkled just like how yours would be, just like how the skin by your eyes would wrinkle when you smiled. The first time I ironed your clothes you would smile and those eye wrinkles would charm me. I remember ironing that shirt for you. I remember ironing all of your shit for you. I remember how it made me feel. You didn’t know how to iron back then, or at least you said so. The first few times it was kind of romantic — the way we used to play house. Suddenly it became an obligation, a routine, an expectation, and a submission. It was one of the ways you measured my devotion and affection. If I expressed thoughts that were anything less than enthusiastic about ironing your clothing, you would judge me. I remember when you got an internship during university. Pressed clothes became a requirement. I would get annoyed when you would come home and just take off your slacks and leave them on the floor to get wrinkled all over again. I would ask you to hang them. I showed you how. You would do it sometimes when you cared enough but it still didn’t change the fact that you apparently didn’t know how to iron. I tried to teach you, but of course your excuse was that I was better at it then you, which was true. I guess that meant that I was supposed to just suddenly embrace this task with a smile continuously. I would make a joke every time that you needed your clothes ironed. You didn’t like that I didn’t jump at the opportunity to iron your shit for you. You would say that I should feel honored because another woman would never grow tired of doing so. You would say that I was petty. You challenge my opinions, my strength, and loyalty to you with such insecurity & manipulation that I felt so sorry for you, yet frustrated, so in the end I would end up ironing your shit anyway. You did this kind of thing all the time. You did it anytime I expressed any thoughts or emotions that you didn’t agree with — even things that I didn’t express from my mouth you would pick up on and try use whatever tactic you could to rearrange me.

Fuck you.

I bought a steamer.