Unfixable

I iron his shirts. Shirts that know more about him than I do. Collar, cuffs, sleeves, front, back, front. They see wherever he goes, move with whatever he does. I want to shake them until all the answers spill out of their faded cotton threads. Faded. Did he always want his shirts washed this much? Collar, cuffs, sleeves, front, back front. Did he always wear this many? My mind can't make the connection.
He lies with his back to me now. His body tense for hours, I know he is still awake. Sometimes I say his name. I do it quietly so he can ignore it if he wants to. He always does. Sometimes he pretends to be asleep so he doesn't have to answer, it doesn't matter.
The room is so quiet, I think I can hear his eyes blink.
Collar, cuffs, sleeves, front, back, front. At some point I stopped being a lover to him and became just his wife, then I became his nothing. It's funny; I don't remember being shown how to iron shirts, I just slipped into it. I have to do so many. He used to laugh at how I ironed "so ordered"and he'd slip his arms around my waist.....
I feel invisible. He doesn't talk to me. He doesn't touch me. He doesn't look at me. Sometimes I think he holds his breath when we're in the same room together. I WANT him to touch me. When we lie with our backs to each other I have to grab my skin between my fingers and pinch it so it bruises, just to check I'm still real. My whole skin burns I want him to touch me so much. I want him to turn over, make that strip of white disappear between us. I want to feel human again.
I iron his shirts and I want to burn them. Collar, cuffs, sleeves, front, back, front. I hate him for not being able to touch me, not being able to look at me, not being able to talk to me.
He gets up early in the mornings now, and leaves before he thinks I am awake. He steals around the room in footsteps I don't recognise anymore, he takes his shirt and slips it round his body. Some mornings I feel him watching me before he leaves.
The telephone rings and rings. I don't answer. I don't want to leave his shirts half ironed, I might forget where I got to.
Sometimes I put the radio on when I'm ironing. I like to hear any sound; music, adverts, especially other people's voices. I wonder what the people look like, what they do, I wonder if they laugh a lot...I wonder if they iron shirts. Mostly I don't hear the details, it just becomes a big sound that follows underneath my thoughts.
In the mornings, when he has gone, I go to the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror. I think I look old now. I don't remember getting old, I just did. Like the shirts. Collar, cuffs, sleeves, front, back, front. I can't believe I am the person he laughed with.
I save them until last now. I like to run my hands over and over them. I like to touch the inside where his skin has been.
I take off my top and slip the shirt over my body. I touch where his neck has been, I touch where his wrists have been,I touch where his arms have been, I touch where his chest has been, I touch where his back has been. The material is soft and warm from the iron. It smells of washing powder.
This shirt has been with him it's seen his life. His new life. His life without me.
Dear god, I hate the man who exists with me, the man who does nothing more than share my bed and make me iron his shirts. His fucking shirts.
I grab the soft beautifully woven shirt that is wrapped around my body. I grab the fabric in both hands and I feel this anger, this rage born from hell build up in me. Bubbling from my tummy into my broken heart. I am ripped apart.
His shirts in my hands are tearing. I know the people on the radio are talking, the televisions images are flashing up - but I hear no sound.
I rip them in order. I rip the collars. I rip the cuffs. I rip the front panels. I rip the back.
I can hear something now, a scream. It takes me a while to realise its coming from me. It is painful and long and it feels as though it is coming from my toes because it is so deep.
Tears stream down my made up face that he never notices. I've ruined it. I've ruined his shirt.
I scrabble my hands along the thick carpet. The destroyed cotton hangs in limp, lifeless shreds between my fingers.

The shirt had the answers, they have died with it.

It is beyond repair.