The machine threw her clothes around and
around. The linoleum floor was cold and uneven, but it hardly mattered. It was
that sort of night. Vibrations were making their way down her spine from the
stacks of machines that piled up to the ceiling. The sun had set hours ago but
the room was still oversaturated from the industrial strength fluorescent bulbs.
The cycle should have ended by now. At least the room was empty; she wasn’t in
the mood for ephemeral gossip.
Only
four minutes, now. Watching her clothes, she couldn’t help but see the other
times she had worn them. Sunny days and rainy museum trips were mixed in with
first dates and last kisses. Warm nights when secrets were told were thrown
around with arguments that had ended in slamming doors and red faces. Waiting
in the cold for the same bus over and over sharing the same space as cinema
trips and popcorn.
Some
had been washed more than others, but it still didn’t seem to get them clean
enough. Old friends still left their smell and touch in the seams and the
stitches. Rehashed conversations were printed on the back of the label where no
one bothers to look, with old memories tucked deep inside pockets. Nearly ready
to be dried.
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