The Clothesline

Short Fiction published in the 2026 issue of The Bangalore Review

A gust of wind flew through the trees and smack into Maisie's bones, chilling them. She considered going back inside for her coat, but she lacked the energy to turn around. Either way, she was used to spring feeling frozen. She was used to how nothing changed much in a year except the names of the seasons, and the fact there was work needing done. She was used to it.

She didn’t have to enjoy it. With one arm, Maisie hoisted the tin basket to her side. The laundry inside was soppy still, with water from washing. It added weight, as she lugged. The late January wind ripped its fingers through her hair which spiraled round her head. In a tangle of auburn static, Maisie used her free palm to rub warm circles on her swollen belly.

Much like her pregnancy, the walk to the clothesline felt eternal, even though it was only at the end of the lawn. She was so trapped in predicting how she would bend and lift once she got there, she didn’t notice the dent in the earth. Until Her mud boot sank, and her ankle bent. To keep the basket from slamming into her, Maisie had to drop it.

For a long moment, all she could do was stand frozen and watch an entire morning's worth of energy soak to mud. Whether it could have been painful or worse no longer mattered. What mattered was it could have been prevented. Maisie became aware, once again, of the delicate life growing inside her. Resented it for requiring so much of her energy and attention—Now what?

She had used the last of the detergent on this washing. She would have to drive into town. She wasn’t planning on needing to do that. Maisie wilted, and prepared to start from the beginning, again—Like a punishment, she used all the strength in her legs to twist her body down in a way she hoped would hurt. Then, stretched to reach for each garment in a way she knew would make her belly ache. Standing finally with a ferocious urgency that drained her dizzy.

She used both arms to walk the basket of dirt drenched, wasted time inside and threw it to the floor. Pathetic, is how Maisie felt when just lifting the keys from the countertop made her cramp. 

⋆˚꩜｡⋆

Nelson had left the car behind for Maisie. He’d even gone as far to switch the title, so it would belong only to her. She had collapsed onto the kitchen floor; body shaking and vision blurry with tears. As Nelson assured her not to worry; He wouldn’t need the car where he was going. Everything he’d need was already packed and waiting for him in the car, with her.  Every time Maisie invited these memories back in, they flickered in a way that spawned an urge to claw at something.

She clawed, as she remembered the sound of her husband’s voice; how he had spoken like she was a stranger. She clawed, as the sensation of powerlessness crept back in. Nothing she had said or did or promised had been enough to change his mind. She clawed at the baby blue Volkswagen, parked in front of their house. At the rumble of the echo of its engine, running and ready to drive Nelson away. Maisie clawed, at the glimpse she kept of the her.

Drumming the steering wheel with her French manicure, as if impatient. The cat-eye edges of her sunglasses created an illusion which directed all the attention in the world to her lips. Outlined, perfectly, in the boldest shade of crimson Maisie had ever seen. She clawed at how intimidating just the memory of this woman still felt. Except, inviting that part of the moment back in caused the memories to betray Maisie.

The most painful part of remembering was the recalling of every humiliating way she had allowed her emotions to possess her. She had screamed, sobbed, and begged like a child. She had latched herself to Nelson’s shirt and wept, like acting that way, would have made him stay. Like she hadn’t ironed that shirt for him that very morning. Maisie had not left bed for weeks following. She had wasted so much time, wallowing. Her claws were not strong enough to defend herself against that part of everything.

For those memories, Maisie had to bite her tongue. She had to draw blood. Nelson had left her, like nothing meant anything. Yet only two weeks before that, he was kissing her neck. Maisie clawed, as she remembered his lips had felt soft, like silk bristles on paintbrushes. She bit, as she remembered his hands. Drawing her into him. His lips had kissed every edge of her, like a sculpting. Maisie bled, the more she dissected every memory.

Searched each corner for any sign she could have missed. That would have warned her to be worried. If she had been aware of the permanence of that moment. If she had had known better. She could have pushed him away.

Three weeks after Nelson left was when she realized she was pregnant. Even then, it was nothing more than an excuse to call him. She had hoped it could change things, but then she noticed the stack of papers. It was as if a ghost had left them beside phone. Every paragraph was cluttered with the word: divorce. Nelson had signed, multiple times. He hadn’t missed a single dotted line. Maisie could not afford to fall apart, all over again.

She dug her nails into the steering wheel to ground herself back to reality.  At the core of everything, it was all too bewildering. How you can never know someone entirely. Even when they are on top of you. Even when they are inside you. Even if it was empty, still, it had to have meant something.

It had to have.

⋆˚꩜｡⋆

In the lot of the drug store, Maisie parked and pulled the keys from the ignition. As the engine stuttered to death, she looked beyond the windshield for models she recognized. Spotting none meant she would be safe if she made the trip quick. Swiftly, she swung the car door open to steady the weight of her body onto the pavement. Yet as she stood, a pocket of wind sliced into her face with such icy velocity, she almost slipped.

Though she managed to grab the door and catch herself, Maisie’s free arm moved to cradle her belly. The action was involuntary: A movement manipulated by a parasite, she thought, then regretted. As she treaded, briskly towards the entrance of drug store, anticipating its warmth. Once inside, the wood floor creaked and the bell above her head jangled like a spotlight alerting her presence to the man at the counter. To her relief, this man was no one new. It was the same man who was always here and always reading.

Maisie had seen him around enough to establish an unspoken understanding. If she didn’t disturb his focus, he wouldn’t challenge her silence with any unnecessary assistance. It seemed to her that both of them were grateful for this. Yet still, she wondered if this man thought her to be mean. She hoped he didn’t; She always noticed which book he was onto. This time was the same as last time: War and Peace. 

Nevertheless, Maisie enjoyed the solitude to shop. Each aisle had its own, unique energy. Wandering through them could soothe even the gloomiest of storms brewing beneath her surface. When time allowed it, she could grant herself room to linger longer than she normally would.

It was on one of those visits, Maisie had observed how the Sporting Goods aisle smelled like cedar and pine. Mixed with a froggy aroma that reminded her of morning rising above crystal blue lakes. The hooks on the ends of the fishing lines were so sharp, they glimmered in the store lighting. The power in the drugstore had flickered, and casted rays of light onto the ends of them. Their reflections had danced iridescently, like tiny rainbows she hoped to never forget.

Except,  the Home Goods aisle called to mind a sensation Maisie could not name. She could never figure out why it made her so sad. It was lovely in the way it reminded her of Persian rugs, waxy candles, and lavender scented linen. Still, she could only linger in that aisle on days she absolutely needed to and today was one of those days. Home goods was where the laundry soap was, and so Maisie wandered one aisle over, towards Office Supplies. 

This aisle Maisie enjoyed lingering in, more than anything. She could sense that the man at the counter took pride in it. It was well swept always, and often kept stocked with new and beautiful things. This time, the man had added a box of ink pens; each canister, a threshold flowing a deeply vivid shade of green.

Its Pantone reminded Maisie of treetops in summertime. She imagined rocks breathing through layers of Moss. Caves glimmering with emeralds and golden light gleaming through oceanic tidal waves. It was impossible in that moment to think about reaching for a pack them, just to hold them in her hands. Maisie hesitated only momentarily, before adding them into her basket.

Consider it a reward, for nothing, hell, she thought, before grabbing the jug of detergent from Home Goods and pivoting back to the counter. To pay, Maisie always set her basket down, as quietly as possible. The man always folded the corner of the page in the exact same way. As he typed each item's costs into the register, Maisie felt the sadness settle in again.

She had forgotten every trip to this magic drug store ended mechanically. Remembered it was nothing more than a pleasant escape. The man behind the counter didn’t even know her name. She couldn’t make sense of why any of this disappointment mattered so much. She wanted, in the strangest of ways, to never leave here.

“I love these,” though, the man mused, interrupting her silence to smile at her.

Maisie’s gaze drooped to the ground and her cheeks burned, rosy in response. By the time she looked back up, the man had returned to bagging, to calculating, to work.

“That’ll be 11.50, for everything” he said, reaching for his book again.

Maisie paid and left. The door to the drugstore flew shut behind her as rushed towards the car. Smacked again by the frigid wind whittling away at her bones. She cursed herself for the cost of those green pens. A surge of pain shot through her body as the engine shook back to life. She winced, remembering.

⋆˚꩜｡⋆

Maisie hoped for summer. Begged for its warmth. In the summer, In the summer…She had been hunched over the basin of dirt tarnished, icicle water for the past three hours. Her fingertips stung pink, and both arms were numb up to the elbow. Except, she refused to stop until each thread was scrubbed spotless. In the summer, In the summer… she thought it over and over again, like a meditation: In the Summer,

The earth that surrounds this house will flush, vivid green.

Fireflies will dance

Cicadas will resume their symphony.

Birds will sing of safety

Butterflies will drink from flowers.

The clothes I hang on the line will dry warm instead of freezing

I will no longer be pregnant…In the Summer.

In The Summer. In the Summer…

Until finally, the chore was finished. Maisie did not hesitate. She moved instantly to carry the basket to the line. Yet as she bent to lift, something deep inside her clashed. The pain was sudden and enough this time. The basket tumbled to the floor, and she fell with it. Seething, she reviewed the damage.

Amidst the catastrophe, the basin had been knocked over. Her skin crawled as she watched puddles of dirt soaking into the past three hours of her existence. The moment was devastating. Maisie could not bear to repeat it again. Her blood boiled. She wanted to scream. She wanted to punish.

Why must this child be so hell bent on eating her alive? She disappeared into her head as if she could reason with it.

When does the hurting stop?

Please. Stop hurting me

My head hurts. My body hurts

My heart hurts. Everything hurts and I

am so exhausted. Please, stop hurting me… Butthere was no response.

Only quiet.

Maisie pressed her cheek to the linoleum tile, sobbing. She sobbed for what felt like forever. She cried about everything; all of it, at once. She cried until she fell asleep like that again: Shivering and Sore, curled up and collapsed. Again, on the kitchen floor, disappearing into a dream.

⋆˚꩜｡⋆

As she laid it all to rest, Maisie dreamt was a butterfly trapped in chrysalis. Held tight inside a cocoon of silky fibers, watching a phantasmagoria of desires flutter forward.

In the first of them, Nelson’s hands were gripping the wheel of a rusted pick-up truck. The sunlight melted onto the dashboard and made the surroundings beyond them Nelson’s glow. Nelson was speeding down a road leading him back to their home, except the vision felt impending. His momentum pressed onto her heart, like an emptiness sharp as knives.

Maisie watched, omniscient, as Nelson fished through the center console. Eventually finding his wedding ring and slipping it onto his finger. In the passenger’s seat, their sick of divorce papers withered. A vignette showcased, her signature swirled, in bold emerald ink planted throughout them. It bloomed at the edges of each line in watery blotches. Maisie blinked through, as the edges of the dream began to shift.

She had risen like the sun above her lawn, hovering as she noticed she journeyed, weightless as lace towards the clothesline. Even with that same tin laundry basket held at her side, something heavy and tight around her had snapped.

Then suddenly, a little girl came racing towards her, swift as lighting. As if nothing else in the world mattered, Maisie felt herself drop the basket to catch this little girl in her arms. She pressed her nose into the soft, newness of the moment. Felt her chest, washed warm with either hope, or certainty; She could not say which.

The corners of this vision shrunk before she could let any of it in and the change became excruciating. As if shook back into chrysalis, Maisie felt her essence dissolving. Every fiber of her being melting like candle wax, sealing her inside this itchy, soppy sensation of Metamorphosis. A set of wings seared through her shoulder blades and she lingered there, limp and heavy. For eternity, Maisie existed now, as just butterfly.