Sighing, she dropped the laundry basket next to the ironing board then filled the iron’s reservoir with distilled water and plugged it in. The kettle’s shrill whistle reminded her she intended to relax with a cup of tea and a nice buttered english muffin before starting the ironing. She truly hated to iron. Am I the only woman in America who still irons tee shirts?
Almost as if he heard her thoughts, he bounded down the stairs. “Didja iron my shirt yet, ma?”
“Waitin’ for the steam. Have some tea and an english with me in the meantime.”
Sitting silently together, they ate their meal. She cleared the table and started the ironing while he lost himself in a video game on his phone. On the third shirt he looked up to check her progress.
“Didja finish my shirt yet, ma?”
“Three so far. Take your pick.”
“Don’t need any of them. Need my Dunkin’. Can ya hurry it up, ma? The T ain’t gonna wait for me, and Joe says I’m fired if I’m late one more time.”
Should’ve taught the boy to iron his own shirts. She quickly ran the iron over the orange and pink tee.
Grabbing the still-warm shirt, he gave her a quick kiss before slipping it over his head. “Thanks, ma, you’re the best! Gotta run. See ya at supper.”