So there I am, folding socks,
and he starts talking dirty,
trying to turn me on.
He’s not just talking dirty;
he’s naked,
jacking off,
describing everything.
He claims my voice
makes him hard.
I was doing laundry;
I’m not wearing underwear.
To him, this means
I was expecting him to call.
It’s an ordinary evening.

And while he describes
how it would feel to bend
me over the dryer,
I’m supposed to pretend
it’s happening.

I’m an empiricist
and require proof.

As I move
pillowcases between
the washer and the dryer,
clean the lint trap,
and fluff my whites,
he comes,
holds the phone to his lap,
and expects me to hear something.
Apparently neither of us is listening.