Pantyhose on the banister
There are pantyhose on the banister. Again. A shrivelled nylon leg slipping down from the sky. There are panties, too. Unmentionables.
They really shouldn’t be there. They should be hidden in a desert taupe-coloured laundry room, set on a crisp sage-white clothes caddy, beside the colour coordinated, energy efficient washer and dryer, right beside a tranquility fountain, all set on the bamboo
flooring that is so popular today. But my laundry room isn’t like that…yet.
Heat rises, and it rises right up my centre hall plan to the second floor and right there, perfectly positioned to catch the heat, is the landing with its white banister, just the right girth to hold slippery, satiny, sheer things. You can’t really see them from downstairs, not unless you are well into the hallway and then look. If by chance on your way to the kitchen you happened to glance up, you’d spot them. Unless you’re going to the den or office or the upstairs bathroom, you’d never know there was anything lurking, anything about to pounce on you: a shimmery, satiny, skimpy thing about to drop on our head.
But there they are. Hanging in the warm air rising. When I put them out at night, they are dry by morning. It’s a perfect system really, unless something slips off the rail and falls into the front hallway. A brilliant system, unless a Kidney Foundation canvasser comes by, or my son’s friends are gathering to watch basketball on TV…
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