12B - The Michigan Daily Literary Magazine - Thursday, March 12, 1998 0 0 0 0 0 The Michigan Daily Literary Magazine Exile in Dundas Panties By Iris S. Hui By Diane Cook 00:00 but the inmates that kept howling liberate me from the silver disc! EMILY NATHAN/Daily K'- AJ r~ f Y u t~ FMIAS{... ree 1 hr. ballroom dance Iescons with Louise Tamres. Learn a new step every Monday at ' p.m. Cha-Cha, Mambo, Rhumba, Fox Trot, Jitterbug & more! Then swing-n-way 'til Midnight. Mon. night Swank cocktail parties D P.J. Al Velour spins Bachelor Pad - tunes from the 50's & 60's o Dress the era " 30 types of martinis * Humidor fresh cigars L O U N 6 f " Happy Hour prices on swank cocktails A T W T B E R 'S " e ' 1' W '' I'III'' ' ' Dundas Metro Subway the last train ambushed the air with a torrenting arrest of buzz spearing my ear drums after tsunamis of noises came the mocking silence jeering at my solitude in the underworld. 06:00 Eaton Center i tallied my steps shops after shops chasing the onset of dawn wearing my AT&T tee and my wind-permeable pants i queried why the warming sun beams gleamed only on the best fashion on the body of the best models. 12:00 Bay Street i drowned myself with music cars' horns mingled with the clashing of footchains folk dancing inside HMV then tower records i captured indeed not the songs 18:00 Yonge Street the eye-catching poster of the phantom of the opera stood solemnly above the theater people in tuxedos and high heels awaiting the phantasmal seduction aware not of their own stalking in the crowded reception hall. 00:00 Dundas Metro Subway the last train speeded to the platform splashing sparkles in the carbon dioxided burrow i stepped in and buried myself in the abundance of fluorescence watching the train proceeding at full speed in and out of utter blackness all ads on the side walls distorted to mere blur. - Iris S. Hui is an LSA junior majoring in political science. She wrote this poem after spending a day alone in Toronto last summer I found the panties in the front pock- et of his Sunday pants. There was noth- ing mysterious about it, nothing to question. There was no wondering if I'd left the lipstick stain on his collar, or whether I'd scratched his back when I came. There was no wondering about those panties. They weren't my size. Lying in bed, I'm thinking about the panties, how I'd found them when I was doing the laundry at midnight while he and Joey were sleeping. That's when I usually did the laundry because it was dark and quiet and I could be alone. I am alone most of the day, every day, but there is something more satisfying about being alone in a house full of people. It makes me feel like I have control over my loneliness. I was cleaning out the pockets of all the pants just like I always do, because if there is an old tissue left in one, then the whole load gets little white tissue shreds all over it, and then I'd have to wash the clothes again. So I was taking each pair of pants and sticking my hand in each pocket, turning them out and throwing them into the wash, and then I stuck my hand into his pants, the ones he wore to the church he said he'd start- ed going to again. And when I stuck my hand into his church pants pocket, my hand touched something smooth and silky and cool, the way silk gets when it's not against skin, and I pulled out my hand and there they were, these ladies' panties - lace, pink silk panties. And I just looked at them for a moment, not really knowing what to make of them. I put them up to my nose and breathed in deeply; they smelled like a woman, and all I could think to do with them was wash them because they were dirty. I filled the bottom of the laundry room sink with warm water and a cap- ful of Woolite and carefully washed the silk panties by hand while the rest of the laundry was done. I washed them gen- tly for close to 40 minutes, looking down into the creamy, cloudy water, watching the pink silk swirl in the water while the machine next to me shook, rumbled and buzzed. I put them into the dryer, set it to "Delicate" and pressed the start button. Then I headed for bed. When I opened the door to our bed- room, the light from the hallway fell on Good things still come in small packages. (Come in and see what a small store can provide in choice of selection and, oh yes, satisfied customers!) 1 1 1 c ADRIANA YUG0VICH/Daily his face and he was sound asleep and half-snoring like he does every night. He sleepily smacked his thin, colorless lips and his fattening chin quivered. For several minutes, I watched the sheet on the bed move with his deep breathing, not thinking of anything except his breathing, until he moved in his sleep, and I shut the door. I walked the straight path to my side of the bed in the dark like I did every laundry night, and I pulled down my side of the covers and climbed under them. And I lay there for several minutes until my eyes adjusted and I could make out the light that crept under and around the edges of the shades that he had pulled down before he had gone to bed. The light from pass- ing cars, one car every few minutes, washed over the walls and ceiling of the room, and over the covers and his face and mine. When the third car passed, he rolled over in his sleep toward me and his hand sought my body. He laid it across my stomach and gripped my waist and pulled closer to me. His hand moved to my breast and it stayed limply there until I fell asleep to the steady rhythm of how his breathing moved his arm on top of me. And now I'm lying here in bed think- ing of last night and the panties. The shades are up now, and the sunlight is pouring across my bed, burning my eyes. I am listening to him make noise in the kitchen. I hear the coffee can bang onto the Formica counter, a hol- low sound followed by the sound of water spraying on the metal sink, and the spoons being rattled in the drawer and the refrigerator door being opened for the cream on the bottom shelf on the inside of the door. I hear him open the front door and I hear his shoes on the concrete as he gets the paper that lands IP AVAILABLE]1 Seattle Repertory Theatre is now accepting applications for its 1998-99 Professional Arts Training Program. All internships are a full season commitment (Sept. 1998 through May 1999), with the exception of Directing. 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