Monochrome metaphore

Despite my occasional efforts to introduce a little enthusiasm into my Wife’s underwear drawer, if for no other reason than parity with mine, Her own choice of smalls can these days generally be summed up as black, boring boy-shorts. [Ed: Obviously there is another reason, but let’s assume the fact that AM feels He really ought to enjoy both buying lingerie for His Wife and Her wearing it should be blatantly obvious.] Admittedly it’s not quite just black: there’s the invariably unworn Infamous Red, along with white, used-to-be-white-but-now-grey, and grey too (though nothing like 50 shades), and even a single peach-coloured waistband.

This week, as the sky was threatening to soak the earth more profusely than a squirting porn star soaks the bedsheets, my Wife had hung the laundry up indoors, and some of it was on the airer. When She hangs the laundry She prefers to group things together: first shirts, then trousers, then underwear and finally socks. Not only that, She separates our respective clothing.

Which was how, when I came downstairs for breakfast the next morning, I was confronted by an airer just populated with underwear and socks. Her’s on one side, mine on the other.
I couldn’t help but be struck by both the literal difference and the story it tells about Us both as idividuals and aa a couple.

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