read
write
members
about
account

 

datedatememberrandomsearch

April 14, 2007
Laundry that I lugged 90-some miles from New York has just finished tumbling in my parents' basement dryer.

"I remember you," the dryer says when I open its creaky door and reach inside for delicious hot fluffiness. (I half expect a freshly-baked soft pretzel.) "You're that drunken little slut who used to sneak in through that window over there 20 years ago, after being out all night doing who knows what with a halfwit or two or four. Remember when your dad boarded up the window after he found out? Jesus!"

I had no idea the dryer had even noticed.