He grew up being told by the elder men that it is the woman’s work is to be in the kitchen among other household chores like unhanging the clothes after washing them. That’s why his dried clothes, his wife’s and his daughter’s school uniform now drip wet as it rains outside.
He is in his house now. I know because I saw him walk from the toilet in his usual slow way; eyes bland like a cow’s and hands always in his pockets as if a giant hailstone falling from the sky is the only thing that would make him take his hands out, to lean over the rails and stare at the stone of ice.
But there was no mega stone that fell, so he pocketed in his signature way and he dragged his small lanky frame from the toilets into his house.
Perhaps he didn’t see the dried clothes. Perhaps the wife washed and didn’t leave him the memo that the three lines of clothes in front of his house belong to his household. After all, how is a husband to see such things if his wife won’t show him?