These pants I’m wearing are hand me downs from my ex-piano teacher’s ex-wife. The cuffs pile up around my ankles, because she’s taller than I am, but she didn’t want these pants to go to waste.

I remember going to John’s house for my piano lesson, a small house in a new development. I would walk through the living room, and there was his wife Karen, ironing. She ironed everything: not just shirts, like I might, but jeans, sheets, underwear. The television would be on, and there she would be, ironing madly.

John always spent a good part of my lesson talking about things going on in his life. The themes usually revolved around perceived indignities. Stories of how he had been mistreated: by cops who pulled him over for no reason, by his parents, by his neighbor who had stolen a shrub from him, by people he worked with in the other jobs he had. He would ask me if I thought it was normal that Karen spent so much time cleaning, and I always listened politely and asked leading questions. I don’t know why – I should have tried to steer him back to the lesson.

After my lesson, I’d go through the living room again, say good bye to Karen, still ironing, and out into the snow.

—

I wonder if Karen ever heard of this .