The iron came from a rummage sale. He said, Why not? Her mother had told her never to buy used appliances. She didn’t love him too much anymore so she didn’t argue.
He took little when he left her but the iron stayed behind, on a high shelf with an old National Geographic, its underside speckled with black dots, its dial set to linen.
She used to like to iron, but not now. She would come home after work, fix a drink, put on dance music, and sit down.
The iron hadn’t moved in three months. He’d used it once when they went to an event at the university. It works really good, he’d called from the bathroom, holding the iron away from his body.
I hate you, she whispered.