Hausfrau Haven (No Comforters)

Hungover at the Laundromat; everything on spin cycle. COLD / COLD / MIXED LOAD

An Asteroids arcade game blinks through its demo. Hand streaks near the start button are more visible than the screen. Its counterpart in the corner is burnt out. Unplugged. Quit on.

Christmas music is four weeks early and I'm kind of singing with thirteen quarters and two dryers going. Nauseously, I identify the shirt I'd like to wear the rest of the day; fading jeans that will soon fit tight and right, belt-less.

Suddenly, the underwear. Not mine, alive, somersaulting through the air like an acrobat, leaping over and on top of my rightful clothes, the white waistband smirking, the bright blue briefs yelling HA HA through the leg holes.

My stomach suds up and whirls. The mismatched tornado tumbles on, devouring the past in heated circles.