I was in a bizarre mood, so a bizarre tale came into being… I do have a thing about washing machines but maybe not quite to this extent. Anyhow, hope this doesn’t sound too bizarre and won’t scare you away… enjoy!
Seven years of marriage. One miscarriage. The sex was long gone.
She had two affairs and a few very forgettable one-night-stands. Now all she had was laundry.
His voice irritated her. He complained all day long: his job, his colleagues, his boss, his subordinates, his mother, the neighbors.
He had grown a beer belly and it steadily continued to squeeze out more each day.
She grew weary of him.
Once on a bright autumn day, she visited a lawyer and learned the procedures of filing for divorce. It sounded tedious. She arrived home feeling tired and dejected. She did laundry. The humming of the machine soothed her; she sat down on the tiled floor watching the fabric and water going round and round. The soft cottony smell of the detergent hypnotized her.
That night in the showers, she masturbated again. It was the first time since — well, since far too long ago. Her knees went weak, her cheeks flushed deeply, she was out of breath. It was exhilarating.
Since then, she has done laundry every night. She was happy to wash just one pair of jeans, the carpet at the front door, anything; she must hear the machine hum everyday, sometimes more than once.
He noticed a difference in her after the nineteenth day, when he caught her folding two pairs of his torn, white underwear and burrowing her nose in the fabric, sniffing long and hard, and then smiling wistfully. He checked afterwards just to be sure those really were his boxers and not another man’s.
He suspected an affair; he tried to come home early to sneak up on her during weekdays, but always, he found her in the laundry room. He hired a private detective for sixty days: nothing.
After a while, he forgot about it, until yesterday when the washing machine broke down.
It has been seven years after all, the thing had been solid, and at the rate she used it, it was normal wear and tear.
But she cried and refused to let him buy her a new one. She locked him out from the small room throughout the night. He checked up on her in intervals. Once he heard weeping, once he heard the sound of her slippered feet pacing the room endlessly, once he heard a faint, wet sound followed by an almost imperceptible cooing sound; it took him a while to recognize his wife’s moaning. He was shocked, but decided that at least she must be all right.
This morning, he awoke to the smell of fresh coffee, and watched her cook bacon and eggs; a real breakfast as he had not seen her make since — well, since too long ago. He kissed her affectionately on the lips and went to work. He found himself getting hard at his desk remembering her whimpering last night in the dark, in the locked room. He thought maybe with age, he was getting kinky. No matter. It would be nice to have sex with her again that night, he thought.
By the time his car pulled into the driveway, it was too late. At least she did not stink, the washing detergent swamping the floor masked the stench of her vomit, her body curled up next to the machine.