Sheesh. There they were again. Blue ones. Striped ones. Even…banana yellow ones. And let’s not forget the faded green ones with brown (or were they purple?) polka dots. Hung with calculated precision next to the flapping brassieres, but wedged delicately between an assortment of bath towels, dish rags, and knee socks, were Mr. Fletcher’s boxer shorts. Again. Over on the next clothesline was another visual …
